


The Other

by LadyFangs



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, Redemption, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-04-05 13:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 39,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14045424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: Everyone has a secret. Some deeper than others.Sometimes, objects in the mirror are far closer and much more similar than they appear.In which Prime Gabriel Lorca returns to his rightful universe only to discover that everything he thought he knew, and loved, is changed.(Thanks to TheAlexofEvil for edits and to BlackQat for constructive criticism).





	1. Burnham 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to BlackQat for being my editorial sounding board and TheAlexofEvil for edits in later chapters.

**Emotional Rollercoaster**

 

The captain’s ready room sits empty.

No one has set foot in it since the return, and it has gone largely neglected due to the chaos that has arose since then.

In many ways, it is a tomb—a haunting reminder that in this time of uncertainty, friends can become enemies, lovers can become betrayers and everyone has something to hide.

Captain Lorca had deceived all of them.

And they had blindly followed him into the darkness.

 _She_ had blindly followed him…and he had shown her, her own darkness.

.

.

In many ways, confronting the worst of themselves has made them all stronger, brought them all closer. But she remains a woman apart. The one of them who was not supposed to be here. Physically dead in one universe. Spiritually dead in the other. But HE just couldn’t let her be. He couldn’t let her stay. He couldn’t let her alone.

What she owes him is her life. He had found her languishing, drifting, wallowing in her own guilt. And he had seen her demons, her battered, bruised heart, and caressed it, breathed life into it.

He had seen her at her nadir and pulled her out of the abyss, given her a place once in the world again, and helped restore her confidence. She had needed someone, anyone, to be an anchor in the storm. Lorca made an offer, extended the tether, and she had latched on to the only person who she felt saw and understood her pain.

Her captain had demanded her loyalty. And she felt she owed that to him, and more.

When Sarek nearly died, Lorca was there.

And he watched quietly and stepped aside when she thought she was falling in love.

She had autonomy, authority. All she had lost during the Battle he gave her back.

Never had she questioned what he may have wanted in return. All he ever demanded of her was loyalty. At the time, it did not seem like much.

.

.

“Please, my captain…” she had pleaded for his freedom with the emperor, ready to trade her life for his. “My captain…” Because she knew where he was, what he was sacrificing, she believed at the time, for them all. For her.

She couldn’t take his pain, barely managed it on the I.S.S. Shenzhou, and even then it had nearly crushed her. But her captain, even in the worst of situations, filled her with his strength—and though he was shaken, he was far from being a broken man.

How ironic, she thinks now, reflecting on the moment when she couldn’t take his torture anymore and had demanded his release to her quarters under the guise of ‘interrogation’. There, she guided him to her bed to allow him rest, giving him water to drink, encouraging what little he ate. Eventually, he lay down, and she curled up next to him in need of an anchor. Ash had revealed himself to be far less than what she believed he was, and the world around her felt as if it was falling down.

Lorca was tired. She knew. But still, he put her need above his, and with what little strength he had, he wrapped an arm around her body, pulling her close and stilling her. Weighing her down. He had given her something to grasp. Something she needed to believe was real.

He rested his hands on hers, allaying her quaking nerves, and guided them to the place where fate awaited.

Even now it makes her cringe, realizing how she must have sounded to Georgiou. What Philippa must have heard her saying each time she tried to appeal for Lorca’s release. The pleas for “my captain, my captain…” The use of the possessive.

All the things she didn’t see.

It was there the whole time.

Gently, she strokes the purring creature in her arms as she sits alone on the viewing deck, gazing out at the stars.

Lorca’s tribble.

Somehow, it had found its way to her quarters from his ready room. It was there, on her bed, waiting for her when she returned.

She has no idea how it got there, but she holds it close to her chest. And as it vibrates against her, she closes her eyes. Yet try as she might to be angry with Gabriel Lorca for using her, for using them, for his lies and deceits, she finds the hate does not come.

That may be what disturbs her the most. Because while she knows she should hate him—she has also come to realize that maybe her anger towards him stems from something she’s not fully ready to admit to herself.

…that she almost said _yes_ when he asked her to stay.


	2. Cornwell I

**Missing You**

Too much loss. What is one more? Every life is equal, she tells herself, knowing it is a lie.

There is one life she values above all others. Even her own.

His.

Her friend. Her lover. Her confidant, her…

Gabriel.

She has seen death, learned it, studied it and faced it, so it genuinely surprises her that news of his should land like a punch to the gut. A shot to the heart.

But still, it does.

The man she loved, the man she knew, is gone. Has been gone more than a year and yet only now is she learning of it. Funny, she had believed their lives and their destinies were so interwoven that she genuinely feels hurt—hurt because he left her and she didn’t even know, until now.

Katrina sighs and looks up at the ceiling then down, shaking her head.

In the long-buried romantic that she used to be, she had believed she would know the day—the date, the time, the exact _moment_ of Gabriel’s passing. She had believed their love was so deep that one of them would have felt the other if they were to go. But there had been nothing. She had felt nothing. Known nothing.

She had lain with the shell of Lorca not knowing—no—not believing he could be something other than the man she wanted to believe he was.

_._

_._

The lovemaking was different…if she could call what they did, that.

He’d always been the dominant one but never had he ever been…detached.

It was like he was going through the motions, moving by rote, that she was a thing…not a woman, and that wherever he was…he wasn’t with her. She knew then, something was wrong. No—it is a lie, she knew before…only now could she no longer deny it.

 “You’re not the man I knew,” she had said, and only now, do those words make her cringe at their truth.

How desperately she wishes she had been wrong.

Gabriel…

There is too much loss. She knows she has to focus on the living—that it is not time to mourn the dead. And yet…

Katrina is grieving.

Not for the tens of thousands that have been lost…

But for the one she loved the most. One life should not carry more weight than 80,000 others.

.

.

Their worst argument occurred the night she told him of her promotion.

He’d paced around her apartment, arms crossed, one hand on his chin.

“Because how often do these things come up?” she’d argued back. “You _have_ to know how badly I want this.”

“But what about us?” He’d pushed. “We had plans, Katrina!”

They did. Long-term plans. Both had more than 25 years in with Starfleet by that point. They could leave. Finish out their present contracts and become civilians again. The promotion came with another five-year renewal.

“Just a few more,” she’d pleaded with him. “You had you turn. Give me mine.”

Only then, did he tell her he too had received a promotion. Rear admiral.

But he’d turned it down.

“I thought we were in agreement,” he’d said tersely, before letting himself out, the slamming reverberations of the door saying his final piece for him.

In the end, he’d signed up for five more years, to allow her to achieve her dream.

But he’d made her promise to stick to their plan.

The house they bought in Tahoe was evidence of it. A joint purchase, a down payment on their next, soon-to-be best, life. A life that, as she stares at the wall through the tears she won’t allow to fall, she knows they won’t get.

Because three years into their five-year plan, a war broke out.

And took with it the man she had promised to spend the rest of her life with.


	3. Tyler I

**Adrift**

Saru tells him that Michael won’t see him.

He can’t blame her. But he wants to…explain. To tell her it wasn’t him. That the person she saw in the moment—that wasn’t him.

He wants to tell her that he’s the one who loves her. He’s the one who made love to her. That he can be who she wants him to be if she just…

Let’s him.

He needs her.

He can’t do this alone.

And he tells her that.

But she can’t see _him_. Can’t see beyond what the person who looked like him did to her.

This proves it.

She says he has to go it alone, and he can’t help himself. It comes out before he can stop it—it comes from a place of anger and anguish and hurt that she could discount everything they had in an instant. Everything they’ve been through together.

Michael was his tether. But now, he is adrift, with no anchor, no place—torn between two people, the minds of two men melded into one…creation. Neither human nor Klingon but other.

She is releasing him—setting him adrift and he’s terrified of it. Terrified of himself. Because he is the one person he doesn’t know. He does not want to be let go.

“But you didn’t.”

She stops, turns slowly, looking at him with an expression of hurt and confusion.

“What?”

He steps forward now, bolder, pleading with her, trying to get her to see the illogic of her own words. Trying to make his own case for her not to leave. To stay. He’s lost without her.

“You didn’t do it on your own,” he says, “you had Lorca to help you.”

She gasps, shakes her head, and he sees something else. Something he hadn’t before. She turns away and leaves him standing there, alone. Questioning everything he knew about what he thought existed between them.

_Please don’t leave me._


	4. Late Night Encounters

** Cornwell-Burnham (Late Night Encounters) **

It’s too much. Too much…feeling. Too much…emotion. Too much…truth.

She’s not ready for truth.

Ash’s words only making it worse. Drilling it deeper.

Michael is torn between guilt and shame.

Shame for loving. Shame for wanting. Guilt for substituting one for the other.

Transference.

She clutches her tribble close, its gentle purr like a soothing balm to her troubled mind.

Rising reluctantly, she leaves her room, wandering the halls, slipping between shadows. It is not her mind that guides her, but her heart, and she comes to stand at the one place she has never been.

Discovery’s corridors are dark, the lighting mimicking night on Earth—something to keep its crew’s circadian rhythms intact -- an artificial night couched in the darkness of space.

Before her, the doors to the captain’s quarters.

A breath, a pause. One hand goes to the biometric scanner next to the door. Will it open? If it does, what then? She hopes it does not, then she can be on her way. It shouldn’t—she’s no longer a first officer, not on this ship, no rank and there is no reason why…

She is surprised when it opens for her. As if it were…expecting her.

Had he believed she would come? Eventually?

The first steps inside are cautious.

The space is…spartan. Impersonal. _Like a man without a past,_ she thinks. _Or one hiding from it._

But what stops her from moving more is when she sees she is not alone.

 “What are you doing here, specialist?”

.

.

Katrina turns at the sound of the door opening and is surprised when Michael Burnham steps through, something small and furry in her hands.

She had come because she could not sleep, her grief too acute, and she had needed…what? Reassurance? Security? Closure?

She had needed something more than just to be told her lover was dead.

It still doesn’t feel real.

“Admiral,” Burnham says, pausing where she stands.

“I…”  She has no answer. Not one she wishes to share with Admiral Cornwell.

“How did you get in?” Katrina asks suspiciously, turning to face Burnham. It is the first time the two have been in such close proximity, and it is strange they would meet here, in the quarters of Captain Gabriel Lorca, former commander of the U.S.S. Discovery.

Katrina had used her command override to access the chambers, and she knows the only other people who could, would be the first officer and chief medical officer—neither of whom are Michael Burnham. So it is strange that she comes now, face-to-face, with a woman who has no rank. A woman who shouldn’t even be here. A woman who…

Katrina’s eyes go wide with awareness as they stare at one another.

“You…”

Burnham looks away, out the window, at the blackness and the stars.

“I don’t know.”

But Katrina does.

“ _How_ did you get in?” she asks again, eyes closing as she braces herself for the answer.

Burnham answers quietly. “It recognized my handprint.”

“So he gave you access,” the admiral restates, for herself, rather than Michael.

It hurts.

Hurts to know that even though he wasn’t her Gabriel, not the man she knew, that he could want…could…desire, someone other than her. And for it to be…this woman. Who was she to him? Is she, to him? What did they share? And …does Katrina really want to know?

“Why have you come here, specialist?” Another repeat question, her voice even, hands clasped behind her back so Burnham will not see how they tremble.

“I came to say…goodbye,” Michael says, settling on her answer.

But both know it is not the truth.

With a sigh, Katrina walks toward the bed, but stops herself…remembering the last time she was in it. The night he pinned her down, held a phaser to her head. The look in his eyes…

 _“It sure wasn’t like how it was before,”_ she’d snapped, frantically pulling on her clothes, zipping her jacket as he’d pleaded with her under the guise of a broken man. But he wasn’t. Just a good actor. A damn good actor. So good she’d almost been fooled…almost.

Instead, she goes to settle on the couch in the vestibule where they are now. Less difficult. Less personal.

She beckons to the chair next to her, and Michael comes, settling in stiffly, formally, the small, purring creature in her lap. Katrina’s eyes go to it, and then to Michael’s.

“It belongs…it belonged to Captain Lorca,” she explains.

“And you have it?”

“It was in my quarters when we returned,” she says.

Katrina can only nod.

“Tell me, Burnham…who was he…to you? Over…there,” she asks, careful in the phrasing of her question. Because she already knows that the Gabriel she had, was never hers.

Michael looks down, petting her furry friend while searching for the words to tell Admiral Cornwell what she knows no woman wants to hear.

“He was my…” _lover. Mentor. Friend…father-figure, abuser, manipulator….Savior_.

No answer.

Katrina studies Michael carefully, noting the shape of her face, the wide set of her eyes, the bow of her lips. The smoothness of her skin. Michael Burnham is beautiful.

With a sigh, she remembers that she too was beautiful once, as well.

“Did you love yours, as I loved mine?” she asks, looking out the window, reflecting on the many times she and Gabriel stayed awake all night, making love off and on, the times they laughed together, and played together, when they argued and even the worst of it—months…years even, without speaking, only to come back together again. She married. Got divorced. He never did. They were both waiting for each other. For the “right” time. But that time never came. .

Together they sit in silence, each woman lost in her own thoughts about a man… _men_ , they thought they knew.

A man they loved.

 


	5. Gabriel I

**Gabriel I**

Mycelium works in mysterious ways. He’d learned that through observing Paul Stamets. He’d learned that this network, used as a weapon of destruction in his universe, could also give life elsewhere.

Gabriel chuckles low, dark. Unhappy.

He was so close. Close to having it all—his revenge, his victory, his empire, and her.

But she refused to come.

Georgiou had gotten to her once again, this time, turning her against him. Michael hadn’t even let him explain.

Now he’s trapped—neither living nor dead, but caught between.

A sword through the back. But the twist—came from her, as she’d stepped aside as he reached for her, letting him fall into the light.

He saw his own death approach in blinding brilliance, and when he woke up, he was here.

Wherever _here_ , is.

“Serves you right, you rat bastard,” Hugh says, coming to stand next to him and crossing his arms as they both look down at the scenes below. “Everything you touch, you destroy.”

“I wasn’t the one who killed you,” he throws back tartly. “But believe me, if I could now…”

They both know the threat is empty.

“Is this what it’s like?” He asks, quieter now, the mask of bluster fading as he watches Michael pet her tribble.

It’s how he spends his time now. Simply watching her. Watching over her. Still trying, even in death, to protect her when he’s failed to do so twice now. The only comfort is that this time, it was his life that was taken, not hers. At least he managed that.

He watches her walk the corridors of Discovery quietly, the pet in her arms. And he watches her at work—on the bridge, engineering. He sees her when she’s asleep, but his heart hurts when she tosses, and he knows it’s not restful. He can see everyone and everything that goes on there—the entire crew of the Discovery, but it is Michael he focuses on the most. The place where his attention never wavers.

“Always,” Hugh says. Gabriel knows the doctor does the exact same thing. Only, he watches over Paul. Watches, as his husband walks into a room that housed two people, but is now home to only one. He watches as his lover stares at the bed but is unable to bring himself to lie in it. And he watches as Paul does as he’s had the past few weeks, and turns to the couch, sleeping curled up and alone.

The temperature around them falls, and Lorca looks up and around as the place they’re in darkens.

“What is that?” he asks.

Hugh turns. “A storm is coming.” He points.

Below them, the Discovery sails on, oblivious to the gathering of ionized particles beginning to spark and churn in the distance. Separate from them, Gabriel and Hugh are the left behind.

“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything,” Gabriel says, to himself.

“I thought you hated poetry,” Hugh turns to look at him, surprised.

“C.S. Lewis,” Gabriel says absently.


	6. Confrontations

**Confrontations**

The only option is escape. The storm is too strong for the old freighter to manage. Cracks in the painted-over rust begin to crawl up the ship’s walls, revealing the extent of the decay. They are all dying creatures here. He learned to embrace it a while ago, how to survive while teetering on the edge. Gabriel Lorca learned how to survive.

The alarms begin to sound as the ship starts to break up, the storm raging outside.

“Abandon ship,” he gives the order.

The crew scrambles, taking with them what they can—mostly intelligence files.

He watches from the bridge, holding the ‘Lisbeth, as steady as he can as the pods take off, each carrying a soul. The crew complement is dropping…

35…30…24…21…17…16…10…6…4….1…A flash of light streaks across the front viewer and the Lisbeth trembles violently, a loud, yawning sound that he knows, can’t be good…

“Captain, we’re at a safe distance, sir. Evacuate…evacuate…”

His XO’s voice comes through on the conn. But Lorca is tired. And he thinks now is as good a time to die as any.

“No can do, Xhian,” he says calmly. “Take care. Keep up the fight.”

Because he’s done with it.

Another bolt, this time, hitting its target. The electricity begins to course through the ship, snapping circuits, frying wires,

“It’s been a good ride, my lady,” Lorca pats the ship’s conn. Waiting.

He sees it as it comes, and as the light approaches, he stretches his arms wide, embracing it.  
.

.

“You’re awake.”

He opens his eyes and sits up quickly in the bio bed glaring at a man in white medical Starfleet-issue scrubs.

“Who the hell are you, and where am I?”

“I’m Hugh Culber, and as for the where, well that part’s complicated,” the man tells him, taking a step back.

“Trust me, at this stage of the game, I doubt anything would surprise me,” Lorca grouses, getting down from the bed.

“Yeah well…about that,” Culber says, right as the doors to sickbay open. Lorca’s eyes go to where Hugh’s are looking and he comes face-to-face with…himself.

Now he knows for sure that he’s dead.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Lorca mutters crossing his arms. “How the hell did _you_ get here?”

“I _died_ ,” Gabriel tells him.

“Took you long enough,” Lorca says, bitterly. “You know how much of your shit I had to deal with in _your_ universe?”

“Yeah, well, yours ain’t much better, buddy.”

Hugh looks between the two of them and just shakes his head, moving back.

The two Gabriels Lorca glare at each other, angrily.

“Look—Captain Lorca, I get you’re angry. None of us volunteered to be here, but--” Culber looks to Gabriel. “I think you two have some things to discuss. And for the record sir,” he can’t help but call Lorca ‘sir,’ “unlike us, you are _not_ dead. Just passing through.”

.

.

Gabriel rubs his temples, growing annoyed with himself. No, really. Lorca is an asshole. And his patience is getting thin. But when Lorca accuses him of murdering Michael, it’s the final straw.

“I didn’t kill her!” He yells, turning on himself. “How dare you judge me, you don’t know shit about me!”

“Oh, I know enough,” Lorca tells him. “You betray your emperor, you screw her daughter and murder her, stage a coup and _I_ get to spend the past year on the run for the crimes of a traitor.”

They argue over this. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

“So what about you?” Gabriel challenges. “What about _Katrina_?” After all, turnabout is fair play.

At the name, Lorca’s eyes get flinty. “W _hat_ did you do to her?”

Gabriel smirks.  “Only what she wanted me to do.”

Lorca is first to swing, his fist finding Gabriel’s face. A face so much like his own. But it’s pointless. Really. They’re equally matched and trade body blows and kicks until they collapse, both breathing hard, exhausted and feeling like defeated men.

“I _loved_ Katrina,” Lorca says defensively, feeling the burn behind his eyes at the mention of her name. “If you hurt her…”

“YOU hurt her,” Gabriel pants out. “Admit it. All those years you went—kept pushing it off, pushing it back…delaying it. If you wanted her, you should have said something _decades_ ago.  THEN you get mad when she asks for five more years? Y _ou_ had 25! Don’t think I don’t know. You made it all so clear in your _personal logs_. So who is more wrong? I adored _my_ Michael. I treated her like the queen she was MEANT to be, and you don’t know the cost…” at that, even Gabriel stops, not able to bring himself to say the other thing.

It gets quiet as they stare up into nothingness.

“What do I need to know before I go back?” Lorca says, voice low. Will I be arrested on-sight for some shit YOU did?”

“Depends,” Gabriel tells him, honestly. “Your crew may not be too happy to see you.”

His crew. At that, Lorca turns his head. “You were on the Buran? What did you do to my crew?” He asks, with a sick feeling in his gut, knowing he won’t like the answer.

“You saw what happened to you when you got to my universe,” Gabriel says, voice flat. “I did what I had to do to survive in yours.”

There’s a fresh wave of anger-fueled adrenaline and at the words Lorca moves fast, jumping on Gabriel and wrapping his hands around his own neck, squeezing tight.

“You sick, son-of-a-bitch,” he growls, the grip tightening as the knuckles begin to show under the skin. He squeezes, watching as Gabriel’s face turns red, then gradually darker, the blood rushing to eyes so much like his own, tinting them red. His counterpart, gags, thrashing, hands gripping his own but the grip doesn’t break and he watches with icy calm as gradually, Gabriel’s body stops thrashing, the hands around his stop clawing, the breathing stops…and finally, the imposter goes limp and Lorca is left to stand, dazedly, his own heart in his throat, looking down on what remains of himself.

His crew. Dead. Murdered, and the last face they likely saw, he knows, was his.

The nausea hits immediately, sending him stumbling, reeling and he turns away from Gabriel’s body and begins heaving. Nothing but bile. After a moment of this, he slumps against a wall and slides down, wearier and heavier than he’s ever been before. Lorca closes his eyes. Maybe this really is death, he thinks. So be it.

 Hugh comes in and looks on in disapproval at both Gabriel Lorcas lying on the floor, bloodied and beaten.

“Time’s up, Captain,” he says, breaking Lorca out of his despair.             

“Up for what?” Lorca asks.

At that, Gabriel’s eyes open and he gets to his feet, rubbing his neck. “Fuck, that hurt,” he rasps then, at the look of shock on Lorca’s face, starts to laugh. It turns into a hacking cough.

Hugh ignores him.  “You should be going now,” he tells Lorca. “Just thank your lucky ion storms you won’t be stuck here, with _him_. Follow me.”

The doctor reaches a hand down and the captain takes it, allowing himself to be pulled up. The two men start walking to the door, past Gabriel who stands there with a strange look on his face. He’s not laughing anymore. Or coughing.

“Wait,” he calls to them striding over and stopping them before they can walk through the door, blocking it with his body. For this, he speaks directly to Lorca, his voice low, carrying with it urgency. The games are done. This, what he has to say now, is serious.

 “You’ll see them both,” Gabriel warns himself.  “Your Katrina. My Michael. They’re both there.”

“I don’t give a damn about your Michael,” Lorca snaps. “I need to fix whatever the fuck you did to Katrina.”

But Gabriel shakes his head.

“Look,” he sighs, knowing himself and trying to decide how to convince Lorca to give him this one thing. “I just need you to tell my Michael the truth. It’s all down there,” he gestures. “In my quarters. In my files. You _know_ the ones,” he says…stopping short of saying the other word. _Please._ Lorca studies him a long moment, and they speak, not with words but with other things. Gabriel knows himself. Lorca does too. _Please,_ he asks himself.  Hugh takes a step back, giving them space. It’s silent here, now as the mirrors of Lorca contemplate one another.

“Don’t make me…”Gabriel says quietly, reaching out to clasp Lorca’s wrist. “It’s _important_.” The grip tightens.

“I don’t owe you a damn thing.” Lorca nearly growls the words as he snatches his hand away.

“PLEASE! There! I said it, are you satisfied now?” Because now, Gabriel isn’t so cocky. Now, he’s out of bluster and underneath that armor of arrogance is still a man. Reluctantly, Lorca nods. He will grant himself this because a part of him, grudgingly, understands. He knows what it has taken himself to even say the word “please.” He knows he had to humble himself. And that’s a tall order and in both universes, it seems, the word itself largely absent in both their vernaculars.

“Gabriel, Captain Lorca,” Hugh interjects. “We’re running out of time. The window is starting to close.”

“There are things there…not even you know,” Gabriel starts talking faster.  “Just tell my Michael the truth. All I ask.”

Lora just nods, lips tight. But he’ll honor the request. Gabriel nods back, stepping aside and allowing them to move past. Culber steps out in front, guiding the way. They walk just a short distance and the doctor stops and turns to the captain.

“Yes?”

“I…have a request as well, if you could, Hugh says, once they’re alone.

“Sure.” Because he really has no problem with Hugh.

“Tell Lieutenant Stamets I’ll be waiting for him at the opera. He’ll know what it means.”

“Will do, doctor,” Lorca extends to him a hand. “And thanks --” There’s no completing the sentence. He sees the white flash coming toward him and before he can speak again, it engulfs him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because somehow the characters of Jason Issacs have invaded my brain and won't leave.  
> Check out "Fresh Air", A Brotherhood fanfic where Issacs' Michael Caffee is a gangster with a heart.   
> https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/14245653


	7. An Unwelcome Return

**An Unwelcome Return**

“Admiral, we’re getting strange readings from this storm,” Saru says as Lieutenants Detmer and Owosekun work at the navigation controls, fighting to keep the ship on course. A streak of light strikes near the hull, rocking the ship and setting off alarms.

“Hold tight,” Katrina says tersely, hitting the comm, “all hands, brace yourselves. It’s going to get bumpy.”

The crew takes their places—operations. Engineering. Medical preps for potential injuries.

“Steady as we go,” she directs, her own hands gripping the arms of the captain’s chair.

Another ionic strike makes the ship quake and throws the bridge crew out of their stations. The lights flicker for a brief moment and go out, leaving only the dim glow from consoles.

“We’ve got fire reports on decks three, 10, and 11,” Saru says. “Reports of injuries.”

“Admiral.” It’s Michael Burnham, having regained her footing.

 “There’s incoming from the transporter deck. Something is caught in the pattern buffer.”

“What do you mean, something in the buffer?” Katrina asks, getting to her feet as well.

“I don’t know Admiral, but it looks like something—no, someone, is trying to come through.”

“That’s impossible. No one has beamed out.”

The ship is still rocking, but the turbulence is beginning to lessen.

“Mr. Saru, you have the conn,” she says. “Burnham, you’re with me. Lieutenant Tyler,” she glances at the man, trusting only so much. They’ve still not yet determined who…or what he is, exactly and while he is human enough, she’s under no illusion that what he appears to be is just a façade. “Have security personnel meet us in the transporter bay.”

She leaves the bridge, Burnham following. They both arm phasers as they enter the transporter room, a group of security personnel waiting, the big guns drawn.

“Set phasers to kill,” she orders.

“Admiral?” Burnham looks at her, aghast at the order. But on this, Katrina holds firm.

“We’re taking no chances,” she directs. “Phasers to kill.” Because she will be damned if she allows Discovery to fall. This crew has been through enough. They all have. And the war is still far from over.

“Understood, sir.” Burnham switches hers, the light glowing red.

Katrina nods to the transporter op. “Go ahead,”

He does and the system begins to whir, the light and particles turning. They watch as slowly a shape begins to emerge on the platform, taking form, its ions and molecules coming together.

 As it takes shape, her hands begin to tremble.

It can’t possibly be…a quick glance to Burnham and she sees she’s not the only one…Michael’s eyes are wide, and she grips the phaser tighter.

“Are you seeing this…sir?” she whispers. Katrina can only nod and swallow hard as everything becomes sharper. Clearer. Until it stands.

He stands.

And turns.

“Hands in the air where I can see them!” she yells, but in it, there’s quaking. More than quaking. Much, much more.

“Katrina,” Lorca says, stepping down from the platform, eyes on her only.

“Take one more step and you _will_ be shot,” she says, trying to gather herself. It takes him off-guard, and he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand until he looks beyond her and sees the row of phaser rifles aimed at his head. Next to Katrina is another face. Heart-shaped, with dark eyes, brown skin. She’s adjusting her phaser.

“Michael,” he says taking a step, knowing immediately who she is. Gabriel had told him. But he doesn’t get far, before yelling in both pain and surprise, as he slumps to the ground, unconscious.

“You shot him!” Admiral Cornwell exclaims, lowering her phaser before rushing to his side and turning him over.

“He could be dead! Have you lost your damn mind, specialist?” She checks his vitals worriedly and calls for medical.

“He moved,” Michael replies drily, lowering her weapon. “Did you not tell him he’d be shot if he took another step?”

The women lock eyes, studying one another a long moment. It was a threat, not an order. Michael knows it. Katrina does too. But the admiral decides against saying more at the moment. She understands. Truthfully, Michael did what she couldn’t—which was to pull the trigger.

A medical team in white fleet uniforms arrives with a stretcher. Lorca is quickly assessed and loaded on it. “Get him to sickbay,” Cornwell commands, unnecessarily really, since they’re already in the process of transporting him. “Let me know when he wakes. Burnham,” she glances at Michael, “come with me.”

.

.

Waking hurts. It’s been a long time since he took a phaser blast and even on stun, the shit is painful. Add to it, she shot him right in the chest. Center mass. It doesn’t get more brutal than that.

Gabriel had given him somewhat of a heads up; from the conversation with his “evil” counterpart, Lorca knew he wouldn’t exactly be greeted with a ticker-tape parade and confetti, but damn if Gabriel’s…whatever she is, hadn’t shot him! Hell, he thinks bitterly, rubbing his chest and slowly sitting up, at least she didn’t kill me. Because he did take note that Katrina’s phaser, and those of the security personnel, were set to kill.

What all has happened here? He wonders, after reassuring himself he’s still in one piece. Lorca takes a look around. There’s only one patient in Sick Bay. Himself.

 A short woman in white medical scrubs walks up to him.

“Gabriel Lorca,” she says, “I’m the Chief Medical Officer. Do you know where you are?”

“Not exactly,” he says. “I know this is a Federation starship….” But he doesn’t know which one. It’s certainly not the Buran. He swallows that. What is, is, and there’s nothing he can do to change it. Doesn’t make the reality any less painful though. But pain is relative, and he’s endured an enormous amount of it in the past two years. Hell, during his entire lifetime. All of it, produced by or connected to him in some way. Story of his life. One of pain. Regret. Sorrow interrupted by moments of happiness, but that’s always fleeting. He wonders at the people who are happy all the time. Unhappiness, Lorca knows, is far more common.

This isn’t what the CMO expected. She draws a quick breath, and he sees the pursing of her lips as she pulls out a tricorder and takes a quick assessment.

 “Well,” she says tartly, it appears _you_ are back from the dead.”

The dead.

He wonders briefly if ghosts feel equally as trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear friend BlackQat told me I couldn't start anymore stories until I finished the ones I'm already working on. So, I will be posting a lot more frequently. 
> 
> Also, I get this particular story feels a lot different than my usual fair, but I wanted to explore outcomes and emotions and answer questions I had personally--like what would happen if Prime Lorca somehow returned? Would he be the same as when he left? How would Admiral Cornwell feel, given what happened between her and his mirror counterpart? I also wondered about the relationship between Cornwell and Lorca--at one point a friendship, at one point sexual--what happened? Why couldn't they make it work? I also wanted to know how Burnham would feel, given her own history with that same man--and they did have a relationship. I wanted to know how these three people who've been through the ringer would attempt to patch their lives back together. So, these are my answers to those questions.


	8. A New Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing by TheAlexofEvil (I think I got them all).

They’re watching from the conference room—Admiral Cornwell, Saru, Michael Burnham and Paul Stamets. The CMO’s face appears on the view screen.

“Admiral,” she says, acknowledging Katrina first, then, “Commander Saru.”

“What have you found, chief?” Saru asks. “Is he…who he appears to be?”

The chief nods. “He’s conscious,” she tells the group, “and his quantum signatures originate from this universe.”

Katrina’s hands grip the back of the chair she’s standing behind, veins almost transparent against the skin.  Michael’s eyes slip close momentarily as she exhales. Saru and Stamets exchange glances.

“Thank you,” Admiral Cornwell tells the doctor. “Has he asked anything so far?”

“He’s unaware of this ship,” she tells them. “Yet he seems stable enough. His bio scans show numerous injuries acquired within the past two years, but all are healed and he is in good health, physically.”

 _But psychologically? Emotionally?_ Katrina knows that’s her job to determine. He fooled them once—fooled her once, and she won’t be fooled again.

 _“_ Keep him there,” she orders. “He’s not to be released. And no one enters unless they’re in the process of being dead or dying.”

“Understood, Admiral. Sick Bay, out.”

The view screen goes back, and the group slips into contemplative silence, each weighing the potential impact and meaning of the survival of Gabriel Lorca.

.

.

“He’s legally dead,” Stamets said. “He’s not supposed to exist anymore.”

“The paperwork isn’t done,” Cornwell says. “It hasn’t been relayed to Starfleet yet.”

“If that’s the case, then he is technically still the commanding officer of the U.S.S. Discovery,” Saru says, elbows on the table, all slender hands and tenting fingers.

“And yet given the circumstances, that person is not the Gabriel Lorca this crew knows,” Burnham says, “and due to past…events and actions, his command is questionable.”

“Placing him back in charge isn’t an option,” the admiral tells them. “It’s unclear what he knows, what he doesn’t—about what has transpired in the time he’s been gone.” Her psychiatrist brain takes over, shutting down her quickly spiraling emotions. “We don’t know where he’s been, where he went, but he’s committed no crimes and we can’t sequester him to the brig.” She speaks slowly, carefully, talking herself into it.

“We also cannot limit his movements aboard the ship,” Saru says. “As you’ve said, Admiral, this Gabriel Lorca has done nothing wrong.”

But the other Gabriel Lorca did, and his transgressions are…unforgiveable.

“We need to speak with him,” Michael says, citing the obvious. They all fall silent.

“With all due respect Admiral,” Stamets swivels in his chair to speak directly to Katrina, “I would like to take myself out of the running for that job. It’s just a bit too….personal.”

She nods, understanding. “I’ll do it.”

Michael looks at her, but Katrina ignores the pointed glance as she stands tall and straightens her uniform before addressing the small group. Discovery still has department heads, but with the exception of Saru, neither Stamets nor Burnham are among them, and yet they have become the de-facto command staff onboard this ship. Yet another of Discovery’s quirks.

“Dismissed.”

Saru leaves first. Followed by Stamets. Burnham is last to go, lingering.

“I said dismissed, _specialist_ ,” Katrina says, more firmly this time.

“Sir, permission to speak freely?”

“Permission _denied_ ,” she tells the younger woman, the words cutting. It’s not Michael’s fault. But sometimes, when Katrina looks at her, she wonders if Michael is just walking destruction, sowing a path of discord in her wake. Trouble seems attracted to her no matter where she goes. First the war. Then Lorca. And now again, another Lorca. While they did share a moment—a moment among women, Katrina knows she must be cognizant not to get too close to these people. She and Michael have already shared entirely too much.

This is not something she wants or is prepared to discuss. Not with Burnham, though Katrina knows the specialist is the only person who can possibly understand, not with anyone, and certainly not right now.

Michael casts a long look at her before leaving, and once alone, Katrina slumps back into a chair, taking a moment to gather herself, and still her shaking hands. The nerves are back—an increasingly problematic situation that has come about since the advent of war. There’s been death and loss and she’s forged through it, compartmentalizing it, pushing it to the back burner, but she knows that the stress is beginning to take a toll on her physiological health. Hopefully, shaking hands will be the worst of it.

With steely determination she doesn’t really feel, she allows Katrina to retreat. Admiral Cornwell leaves the conference room and begins to make her way to Sick Bay, brave face in place, to confront a man she never thought she’d see again. One, she believed was dead. It would have been much more convenient, Katrina thinks, had Gabriel Lorca stayed that way.

 


	9. The Gamble

**The Gamble**

Admiral Conwell sits alone in the conference room, awaiting a connection, notes on the PADD in front of her. She can’t believe she’s considering this, but she thinks it could buy them time, possibly, help push back against the Klingons, maybe, even—if they play their cards right, make some inroads. But she has to run it by her colleagues first.

 The viewer flashes on, and she sees the group—what’s left of the admiralty—Terral and five others, seated at a conference table at headquarters back on Earth.

“And you have verified that this man is Captain Gabriel Lorca, the one from our universe?” Terral asks.

“Yes. His quantum signature is a match. And I have an idea for how he can be of use.”

“How? He’s been out of service nearly a year. Not to mention the potential psychological implications of prolonged exposure in a hostile environment. Are you sure he’s psychologically fit?”

She nods. “He passed the psych evaluation.”

“So did his counterpart,” an admiral replies drily. “What makes this one special?”

She tenses, feeling defensive. It was by her recommendation that Lorca got the Discovery, even after the business with the Buran and she feels partly responsible for the chain of events that have come to pass. But she also feels this is the best decision out of what’s becoming progressively worse options for them, so, despite her personal feelings, she pushes ahead.

“The Klingons are under the impression that Captain Lorca is dead and that Discovery has been destroyed. Upon entering this universe, the I.S.S. Discovery was mistaken for the U.S.S. The Klingons got the wrong crew. This ship, and its Captain—nearly managed to defeat our enemies nine months ago when they destroyed the ship of the dead, and it was only due to a bad jump they couldn’t finish the job. I say we put Discovery back in: and her captain too. There’s a reason you all made Lorca a captain in the first place,” she says, letting her final words linger, heavy with implication and meaning.

The admirals quiet, knowing exactly what Cornwell is getting at.

Lorca didn’t come up the way most other Captains do. He’s not a scientist, or historian—at least, not traditional history. And he made captain at a time when the Federation needed warriors, not diplomats.  

“Can we trust him, Admiral? Do YOU trust him?”

She swallows, deflecting. “I trust he’s our best option for getting the job done.”

Later, that night, she writes up the order, yet when it’s complete, her finger hesitates over whether to send…

This should be done in person. And this, she knows, will likely be the last time they speak.

.

.

He’s pacing in the Captain’s quarters, feeling like a caged animal, vacillating between anger and resentment. But most of what he feels is, hollow. Katrina had allowed him release from Sickbay, but only after a three-hour debrief, intensive questioning on his whereabouts the past two years, and what was the longest and most intrusive psychological evaluation of his life. They kept going over it—over and over, every detail, diving into the minutiae—he’d half-expected her to inquire whether he was pissing properly.

But what was worse was the clinical detachment she maintained through it all. Whenever he tried to ask something personal, she deflected and dodged, turning it back on him, each time. He knows Katrina. Thought he knew her at least, but this new woman—this distant, cold impenetrable fortress of a woman, is not the one he has loved and longed for more than half his life. It’s wrong. And he knows Gabriel has something to do with it.

At the thought of Gabriel, he bites his fist to keep from lashing out. That sonofawhore, damn him, for ruining everything Lorca has worked for nearly his entire life. His reputation. His career. Did that bastard even know what its all cost him? Probably not, and Lorca doubts he could have cared less.

He knows Starfleet has ordered the “excursion” to the mirror universe sealed, all records of it classified above top-secret. She told him that much at least, and he can’t blame them. That place was a different sort of hell and one that he’s not really ready to repeat any time soon. It was difficult enough to survive, and he’s got the wounds to prove it. So many fights and battles, and the truth is, Lorca knows if he were a different sort of man, he’d likely have died over there. But he didn’t. For some reason, he doesn’t know, he’s still here. And he’s not about to just sit in a room day and night without trying to do something to bring about an end to this war they’ve been fighting for nearly a year. He’s not used to being put on ice. Not accustomed to staying still. He’s a doer, not a follower and right now, he needs something to do. To keep his racing mind at bay.

 


	10. Lorca I

**The Things We Cannot Say**

Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

All he feels is numb.

All he hears is the empty silence of his room. A room, unfamiliar, but one that is now his new reality.

It’s not their first argument. But there’s a sense of finality to this one and he doesn’t know what to think anymore.

It had started quietly.

A chime at his door.

She came. They spoke. Tightly. Formally. Short, direct sentences.

But her eyes kept darting toward the bed.

He should have known better. But he had to know the truth. So he reached out. Touched her.

 And it unleashed the flood.

She had yelled at him. Screamed at him. Beat her fists against his chest and cried. And he couldn’t do anything but take it. Take her rage, her hurt. All he could tell Katrina was, “it wasn’t me.”

But it didn’t matter.

She knew it, he knew she knew it. But it’s one thing to know intellectually, and accept emotionally.

 _“Every time I look at you,”_ she had said, _“I see him.”_

_“When you touch me, I feel his hands on my skin.”_

It made him sick, all over again.

“He _deceived_ me. He _preyed_ on me. He used me and he discarded me—sent me to _die_ by the Klingons. And I thought _he_ was _you_. I see him in _your_ face. So tell me, Gabriel,” she had said once she was done railing at him, eyes red, voice cracking, “ _How_ am I supposed to move past this?”

He chose to remain quiet knowing if the roles were reversed…he would struggle just the same.

But Katrina was far from done.

“Twenty-five years, Gabriel.”

 _Twenty-five years._  At that, he’d tried to head her off, attempting to plead his case.  “Kat…”

But there was no stopping her. She was hurt and angry and 25 years worth of resentments were unleashed on him. These had nothing to do with the imposter.

“All that time! I waited when you took that first commission. And you promised me then that when you came back, we’d be a _family_. And you left again! You had the audacity to be mad when I got married—you didn’t talk to me, wouldn’t see me, nothing. And yes, you gave it your level best for three years, I’ll give you that. But even then, _I_ wasn’t enough for you. You couldn’t stay still. Couldn’t stop. It was always about what YOU wanted. Everything on YOUR terms. And we do this. What’s happening now. AGAIN. _Back and forth_ we go. On and off. On and off, like rats on a wheel. I wasted years on YOU. _Your_ career. Your ships! You didn’t even bother to stick around after—” she drew a shaky breath, trying to regain her composure.

“We missed it, Gabriel,” Katrina said, flatly. “Our backup plan failed.”

“We can still save it,” he told her, trying to talk her down, still making the effort to keep her. Keep them. But it was crumbling on the shaky foundation which it stood.  “We made a promise, remember? The house in Tahoe. We’re almost there, and I swear, Kat—I’m serious this time. I didn’t take that position because I wanted you then and I know I fucked it all up but I can’t change what happened, I can’t change what _he_ did.”

But she shakes her head. “Even now you still don’t want to address the real problem. Still the same Gabriel. It’s still about YOU having time. YOU are serious, this TIME,” the words laced with bitterness. “I see certain things are the same, regardless of what universe we originate in.”

That’s when he knew it was over.

“You have your orders,” Katrina said—or rather, Admiral Cornwell said, leaving his quarters. And, as if an afterthought, said something else he still doesn’t quite know how to process.

 “Specialist _Burnham_ can help you.”

Burnham—a woman quickly becoming the shadow over his shoulder.

Lorca knows what he promised himself. But at the moment, he does not deign to give Gabriel a goddamned thing. And as far as he’s concerned, specialist Burnham is no better.


	11. Shirley Brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you understand the title, you'll understand a big part of this story.  
> If you think you've got it, I'd love to hear it.

**Shirley Brown**

They keep meeting in odd places. This time, it’s the observatory.

“Why do you always seem to find me when I don’t want to be found?” the Admiral says wearily, gazing out of the window at the velvet blanket of stars before them.

“I assure you, it is not my intention.”

“And yet, here we are,” slowly Katrina turns to face her, revealing not an admiral, not a superior but just a woman.

“I’m leaving him in command,” she says appraising Michael, searching.

“Why? Admiral, are you…certain…”

“No. But one never can be in matters like these,” Katrina tells her. “He’s going to need someone, who…understands. Someone who has been there before. You’re the closest thing to it. And you knew the other him.”

The other him. Only three people really know what happened over there. One is dead, the other at war with himself, leaving only her.

“He needs a complete picture if he’s going to know what he’s dealing with,” the Admiral continues. “I’ve directed him to you.”

It sounds like an order, but both women know it’s an ask.

“I…don’t know if I can,” Michael tells her honestly. They share the same problem. The man before them, versus the man before him. A conflict. For Katrina, one that is insurmountable but for Burnham, she thinks…recalling the way the door to Lorca’s quarters had opened for this woman. That the other Lorca crossed time and space for her, risked a universe for her, and while Katrina doesn’t believe in destiny she knows enough to know some things have no explanation.

 “You have to,” Katrina says.

“My shuttle is preparing to depart. The Federation needs you. And it needs Lorca, too.”

With that, the admiral turns to go, this time, leaving Michael alone.


	12. Return

**Return**

The Federation blues feel strange on his skin, familiar and foreign at the same time. He finishes dressing and takes a long look at himself, the face of the Captain he used to be—no, the one he is, staring at him.

 Katrina’s shuttle left the night before. He’d watched it go, watched her go, still feeling numb. It hasn’t left. It may not ever, but he doesn’t have time to consider it now. He’s got orders and he’s going to follow them.

 There was no sleep last night. Or the one before, or the 230-odd days prior to that—he’s not slept through the night since the war started, and he’s given up on it. If not nightmares, restlessness, and he’ll sleep when he’s dead anyway. That ought to be soon, Lorca thinks darkly, taking a sip of black coffee. Dark. Strong. A small piece of welcome comfort in this universe.

It’s not going to be easy, and he’s preparing himself to face a crew he knows damn well will resent him upon sight.

Sure enough, as soon as he takes his first steps into the main corridor, there’s a physical shift, as if the oxygen is being sucked out of the air.

The crewmen and women in the hall tense and fall silent as he passes, the stares at his back. None of these faces are familiar—strangers to him, all. Perhaps it is a blessing in disguise. None are friends. No tangled relationships. No emotional attachments. All his friends, except one, are dead.

But none of these people need a friend. What they need is someone who can end this war. War is what Lorca knows best.

The doors to the bridge open, and Commander Saru, his first officer, he knows, announces his arrival.

“Captain on the bridge.”

Here too, it quiets, the chirp of the monitors suddenly louder as the crew turns from their stations to look at him.

“No need to salute,” he says drily. “We’re not over there anymore.”

It’s not an attempt at humor. Just raw observation.

“I’m the _real_ Gabriel Lorca,” he tells them. “And you don’t have to love me. You don’t even have to like me. But I am Captain, and as long as I show respect to you, I ask you do the same. Are we understood?”

“Aye, sir.”

His eyes go to the voice to his left. And he sees her. The face of the woman that shot him. The face of Michael Burnham.

She watches him evenly, hands behind her back, standing at an informal resting position.

“Specialist Burnham,” he says tightly. “Ready room.”

He goes, expecting her to follow.

Saru catches her eye and starts to speak, but she shakes her head at him and goes with Lorca. The Kelpien has already told her his concerns. That he doesn’t trust the decision of Admiral Cornwell. Nor does he trust this Lorca.

She cannot tell him otherwise because she does not know this man. Yet, as she follows Lorca into the ready room, she has the feeling she is about to find out.

The doors close behind her, plunging them into darkness.

“What the hell is this? Lights, 100 percent!” He barks. The lights turn on immediately.

“They’re on automatic setting, sir,” she tells the captain. “You’re counterpart was…light-sensitive.”

He scoffs, walking around to the other side of the large desk, putting it between them.

 “How did you get on this ship?” Lorca asks arms crossed, looking down at her. He’s got an inkling, but he wants to hear her tell him. The truth.

“YOU…he, brought me here, sir.”

“For what _purposes_ did he bring you here?”

There’s something in it, she doesn’t like. Like he’s accusing her of something—something specific, and she becomes defensive.

“You’ll have to ask yourself that, sir.”

His eyebrows raise at the direct insult.

“Don’t get smart, specialist.”

“With all due respect, sir, don’t insult my integrity.”

An impasse. Only through reputation has he known Michael Burnham, having only seen her directly a few times by Georgiou’s side.

“Tell me, Burnham, why’d you do it?”

He’s read all about it—one of the first tasks done in examining the crew manifest. But he wants to hear her side of it. Wants her to explain herself. She answered for it in the testimony at her trial. And in replaying that last night, he’d found himself agreeing with her logic. Still, agreeing and condoning are separate things, and if he’s going to command, he needs to know who and what she’s loyal to.

“I took a calculated risk,” she says. “And…”

What she wants to say is what she thinks he wants to hear. That she believes she chose wrong. But she can’t bring herself to say that. She didn’t say it at her trial, and she has never apologized for it. Regretted it? Deeply. But…

“And…” he prods, seeing her conflict. “Do you regret your choice?”

Does she regret it…?

“Every day, sir.”

“Do you believe it was the right one?” He presses.

 _“You chose to do the right thing over what was sanctioned. Even at great cost to yourself,” she hears the other Gabriel Lorca tell her again, can almost feel the heat of his body around her…._ Michael blinks, trying to shake off this feeling of déjà vu. It’s like staring into a mirror. But this isn’t her captain Lorca staring back at her.

 _Her_ Lorca.

_My Burnham…_

The possessive.

He watches as her face goes blank, and she appears to be looking at him, but not fully seeing him.

“Specialist?”

A blink, but no response.

“Specialist!”

 “Yes, sir?”

There she is. Back from wherever she was. “I’ve asked you a direct question. I’d like a direct answer,” he says. “Do you believe your choice was the right one?”

He’s had 10 months to consider it, study it. Analyze it. Ten months of having Klingons as allies instead of enemies and more than enough time to pose to some of them the question of his own universe. The great, ‘what if?’

“Sir,” tells him firmly. “Context…”

“…is for kings,” he finishes, not quite knowing where the words came from. Yet somehow they seem fitting.  

Burnham’s eyes go wide, but she falls silent again.

 “Let me guess,” he says. “Something I’ve said before?”

A nod of confirmation.

“You’re dismissed,” he tells her. A turn of the heel, and she is gone. Now alone for the moment, he moves to the viewer. “Computer, access personal logs—Gabriel Lorca.”

They open for him, but these aren’t the ones he’s searching for.

“Computer…” he gives the next command, a series of coded words to reach the files buried deep in the system—the place where only a Gabriel Lorca knows to look. A place where only a Gabriel Lorca would bury his most private, and intimate thoughts.

 _“Hello Michael,”_ he hears his own voice in the room, sees his own face in the viewer.

“ _If you’re seeing this, I’m dead.”_

Lorca quickly turns off the screen and logs out. It’s neither the time nor place.

He hits the comm, “Commander Saru report to the ready room.”

Moving on.

.

.

Michael sits on her bed, absently feeding the tribble in her lap a lettuce leaf. It coos, and she strokes its soft fur, feeling it vibrate. Such a delicate creature, former companion to a hard man. Quietly, she replays her interaction with Captain Lorca from earlier. Why had he said what he did? Did he know something?  And what does it matter if he does? It’s not as if there was anything…not as if she did, anything. Or shared anything or…

“How weird is it to have Captain Lorca back?” Tilly comes bounding into the room, letting down her hair and flopping down on her bed.

“Everyone is talking about it. Crazy, right? There’s two! They’re like twins! Or like, an evil twin.”

“There were also two of you, and two of me.”

“Yeah, but one of YOU died, and mine bit it as well, but holy crap! Another LORCA! Like, one was bad enough—okay, so he wasn’t exactly BAD, but I mean, what do we know about this one? This is the REAL him, right? From what I’ve heard, some people say he’s an asshole.”

“I will agree they are…similar, in personality,” Michael hedges. For the past several days, Captain Lorca has been running them through battle simulations, logging their response times, and it feels very much like what his mirror universe counterpart did as well. It’s to the point where there has been talk as to whether this is even the real Lorca…or if the other one is trying to fool them all again. This Lorca is just as brusque and taciturn as the other, shooting off orders but Michael senses…something more.

However she doesn’t really trust her senses or instincts anymore. After all, they were wrong about Ash.

At the thought of his name, she feels her stomach clench.

Ash.

He’d left with Admiral Cornwell, as she’d deemed him a danger to the ship. Michael couldn’t defend him, though a part of her wanted to. They had shared...so much. She had given him the most intimate parts of herself, and never could she have imagined that he could be anyone other than Ash Tyler. She also can’t help but wonder whether it was love between them. She tries to tell herself no, but she’s never been a good liar. And that’s the worst part about it. That a man she loved could hurt her the way he did. And as she thinks of Ash, inevitably, she begins to think of Lorca. And it makes her shudder with guilt because…because maybe, Ash wasn’t the only man she loved. Now that there is a Lorca once again walking Discovery’s corridors it’s far more difficult to reconcile the conflicting emotions she’s experiencing. So she chooses to ignore, and slips under her blankets, curling in on herself. It’s been a long week.

Tucked into her chest is her tribble, purring softly, and lulling her to sleep.

But in sleep come dreams.

.

_Bodies, moving together in a dance as old as humanity. She watches from a distance as two people make love under the blankets—all she can see are their shapes, all she can hear are the soft whispers, the hitched pants the moans…_

_The blankets slip down, revealing them. Ash and Michael. She blinks. And the scene changes._

_The blankets slip down. Exposing the lovers. Michael and Gabriel. It makes her breath catch. She blinks again._

_Repeat._

_Stuck._

_Ash._

_Gabriel._

_Ash._

_Gabriel._

_Every time the blankets fall, the face changes. Back and forth. Back and forth. The manifestation of her confused heart. Her troubled mind._

_The scene repeats itself one last time._

_The blanket falls, and she braces herself for what it reveals to her…_

_Gabriel._

_And it stops._

_No more loop, it just keeps going._

_This time, Gabriel stays._

_._

She wakes abruptly, sitting up in bed, her body flushed. Hot. The sheets are wet.

Beside her, the tribble purrs, still slumbering. Across from her, Tilly snores. Her friend won’t wake for anything short of an alert or alarm. Silently, Michael slips from her bed and goes into the bathroom, deliberately keeping the lights dark. She doesn’t want to see herself. Cold water on her face brings some relief, but not much as she tries to go back to bed. But rest is elusive, and the possibility of more dreams, a deterrent. It is useless.

Instead, she rises again and dresses, and, taking her tribble, slips out of the quarters and down the corridor to the one place that is likely to be empty at the hour. The observation deck. She needs to be alone.


	13. Confessions

**Confessions**

He has spent the past week in routine. Over the years, routine has been a coping mechanism. Get up, go to the bridge, read files, run drills. Return to quarters, read more. Study. Study.

He is learning these faces, these names. Rhys. Owosekun. Bryce. Stamets. Detmer. Assessing their skills, talents, individual merits. There have been no changes yet—and grudgingly, Lorca admits, his counterpart trained the crew well. Still, there is one that continues to puzzle him.

Burnham. Her purpose is unclear. Yes, he has read—she was able to get the spore drive online when no one else could do it. And she is credited with the rescue of Katrina and the tactics used to destroy the ship of the dead. But still…there appears to be a lack of purpose. He’s got no idea what to do with her. A science specialist is unnecessary as there’s not much “science” going on, on this ship right now.

Again, he circles back to the records of her mutiny. Again, he reads through the transcripts.

_“Were you ordered to stand down?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“So you violated a direct order?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Why did you believe you had the authority to do so?”_

_“Because it was the only way to prevent this conflict.”_

_“Do you recognize that your actions may have led to the present situation?”_

_“No.”_

_“You do not accept that we are at war?”_

_“No. I do not accept I am the cause of this war.”_

It goes on like this.

He stops reading and gets up, pouring himself a whiskey. At least he and his counterpart shared similar tastes and he’s grateful that Gabriel left behind a sizeable stash. He needs this liquid courage to delve further.

Back to the files.

The personal files.

“Computer,” he orders, “seal doors. Master lockout Lorca…” he gives the authorization code to ensure absolute privacy. It’s a precaution.

“Computer,” he says again, sitting down. “Personal files, Lorca, Gabriel…” a new set of codes, and as he sips from his drink, the viewer comes on and he sees himself, sitting at this exact spot. He watches himself speak.

_“Hello, Michael. If you’re seeing this, I’m dead, and it didn’t work.”_

Such calm. Is that regret he hears in his own voice? The face is firm---does he really look that old? But the eyes…the eyes are…sad.

“I should have told you the truth,” he hears himself say. “But would you have believed me? I know you don’t believe in fate, but I do. And I still believe it was fate that brought me to you, again.”

Gabriel’s shoulders slump slightly, and he pauses, deep in thought.

“The files we recovered,” he says, speaking slowly, voice becoming lower. Thicker. “They say you died, and I’m wanted for your murder.” 

At the word murder, Lorca takes another, longer sip of his whisky, listening intently as this other him, speaks.

“I didn’t kill you, Michael,” Gabriel whispers. “You may not believe anything I say, but I didn’t kill you. I loved you. And I was forced to watch you die.”

_He watched her die…_

“If you see this, and you’re still here, in my universe, I know you’ll want to trust Emperor Georgiou. Don’t.” At this, there’s fire in his face. His hands fists. “Do not trust a word she says. Don’t believe what she tells you about me,” he continues. “It was by her order you were killed. She sent you after me and used you as a beacon. You were followed. And she knew—about us. And she also knew…”Again, he hangs his head.

_This is a far different Gabriel Lorca. A defeated, humbled, Gabriel Lorca._

“She took everything from me,” Gabriel says, and talks some more.  What he reveals is shocking.

The glass slips from Lorca’s hands and shatters on the desk.


	14. Roaming

**Roaming**

The corridors are empty as he walks them. Those on shift are already at their stations, the others, asleep. Only a line of tiny white lights on the floor provide illumination enough to chart the path. He takes it quickly, feeling as if he’s slowly being suffocated.

A ride on the turbolift, another corner. He goes, arriving at the place he wants to be. The widest, most open part of the ship. The observation deck.

Doors slide open in greeting and he steps through, taking a breath at the openness of it—but it catches when he notices he’s not alone.

There’s someone else here.

The last person he thought he’d end up seeing.

She’s seated in a corner at the far side of the room, and if he hadn’t done a quick scan he almost would have missed her. As it is now, she’s on the floor, legs tucked under her. And, she’s still.

He debates…whether to say something or just let it go.

 Perhaps he should just let it go. After all, what he’s heard, it wasn’t meant for him—it was meant for her.

But something within him just can’t. Now he feels as if he owes her something. Lorca shakes his head, unaccustomed to such a debate.

 _Just leave,_ he tells himself. _Go._

“Captain?”

_Shit._

_Now it is too late. She has seen him._

Hastily, Michael gets to her feet. But he raises a hand to stop her.

“No need for formality,” he says, walking toward her. “It’s 3 a.m. Shouldn’t you be…asleep?”

He’s trying for…approachable. Casual chit-chat, to stave off the inevitable awkwardness of this. “Shouldn’t you as well, sir?”

“Touché.”

He turns to stare out the viewer, and she turns and picks up something round and furry from the floor. A purring sound reaches his ears, and he turns to her, right as she moves to leave.

“What is that?”

Slender fingers stop mid-stroke, and Michael turns to him once more.

“It’s called a tribble.”

“Never seen one of those. Where’d it come from?”

“It was yours, sir.” Then catches herself. “His.”

_His._

_Now hers._

“He gave it to you?”

“I…don’t know.” The phrasing is cautious. “It was in my quarters when we…when I…returned.”

Lorca doesn’t ask from where she returned.

In her arms the creature trembles a bit and lets out a mewling sound. It surprises Michael, and she looks at it.

“That’s new.”

The tribble mewls again, a sound plaintive and longing, and she clutches it close to her chest for comfort. “Shhh, it’s okay,” she whispers to the pet, stroking its fur gently.

“May I?” Lorca asks, reaching out. She looks at him, considering and then hands him the critter.

“It likes to be close,” she says. “Held.”

So he holds it close to his chest as he watched her do.  It purrs, the furry body vibrating against him. A sensation of calm washes over as he gently pets it. The tribble begins to coo.

“Does it have a name?”

“I don’t know,” she says, feeling a bit of sadness while watching Lorca hold her pet. The animal seems to like him, cooing and purring in his arms, even wiggling its round body up against him and she’s struck by the thought Lorca could just take it—after all, the creature doesn’t really belong to her, just like _he_ didn’t belong to her, and what she’s feeling right now—even at the idea of loss, something so minuscule—it’s just an animal. She’s got no right to these feelings. And it’s not as if she’s attached to it, really. She’s just been its caretaker. Maybe the animal got out somehow. It’s entirely possible it ended up with her by accident. It well could have gone to anyone.

He glances at Michael and sees the slightly stricken look on her face and hands the tribble back to her.

“As long as it’s not invasive,” Lorca says, “you can keep it.”

She reaches out, almost gratefully, and when the tribble is back with her, it coos for her again.

“I think maybe it just wanted to inspect me,” he works to reassure her, watching as she holds it close, surprised at the intense attachment she has to it. They slip into silence again. He’s got so many questions for her and briefly wonders whether to ask them. One hovers at the top. But exactly how to go about it? Perhaps just throw it out there? See what she says? She certainly didn’t take kindly when he’d suggested something similar before. And he doubts she will again.

Lorca now knows what Michael Burnham was to the other him. But he wants to know is what the other him, was to her.


	15. Restless

**Restless**

“Captain on the bridge,” Saru announces.

This time, his staff at least nod. Three weeks in, and gradually, they are all acclimating to one another. “Lieutenant Owosekun,” he greets. “Detmer. Rhys. Bryce.” Each a direct address. He told them once that all he demanded was respect and duty, and they would get it in return. Lorca is ensuring he upholds his end of the bargain.

“Specialist,” he says, eyes falling on Michael.

“Sir.”

They linger there, under his first officer interrupts. “The daily reports, sir.”

Lorca takes them, and moves off, and begins his usual habit of pacing the bridge while he reads. He has never been one to sit idly in a chair, and as he skims over the updates, he becomes increasingly displeased. Three weeks he’s been on Discovery—acting as its captain, and yet not once have they been called up. Meanwhile, according to what he’s seeing, a dozen more Klingon attacks, no pattern. Yet each one a devastating hit on a colony. Two more starships lost, three others severely damaged, and it appears the brass are…muddling. He doesn’t like it. No word on direction from Katrina. No plan of action. But the report in his hands…disturbs him.

“Commander, Specialist,” he speaks to both of them. “My ready room.” There’s no “please”.

Michael and Saru look to one another and follow.

The doors close, and Lorca pulls up the report on the large screen so they can see.

“What’s wrong with this picture?” He asks.

Michael studies it. A map. A catalogue of the newest attacks, damage reports. Casualty reports. The Federation has gained nothing since Discovery’s return and only appears to be losing more ground.

“It does not bode well for us, sir,” Saru says, one arm crossed over his chest, a hand touching his chin.

“What are they doing?” Michael asks, quickly identifying a pattern from the attacks. “Here and here,” she points at the screen. “And here.”

“I don’t quite follow, Specialist,” Saru says. Lorca’s eyes go to where she’s pointing. He thinks he knows what Michael is getting at.

“They’re testing,” he says, grimly. And she nods.

“Yes.”

The three locations in particular are all heavily armored but lightly staffed federation outposts. And the Klingons have been attacking the arrays, trying to see how the Federation will respond. “They’re looking for holes,” Lorca says, “to see where we react.”

Slowly, Saru nods. “And we have not reacted at all. We’ve been diverting our resources to the colonies.”

“Yes, but we’ve also left our defenses defense _less_ ,” Michael says. “And while we’re working to protect the colonies--”

Lorca finishes, “the Klingons are trying to break down the walls. Computer, contact Starfleet Command.”

He nods at Michael. “Good insight,” he tells her, feeling as if he’s beginning to understand why she’s onboard this ship.

.

.

“Then why put me in charge?!” He finally yells at them in frustration and slams his fist on the desk. Controlling his temper has always been problematic, especially when he’s being faced with what he considers monumental stupidity. And right now, he believes the admirals are being deliberately obtuse.

“Discovery is too valuable an asset,” Admiral Terral tells him, coolly. “We cannot allow your ship to fall into enemy hands.”

Lorca takes a step back, wondering if the Vulcan understands the irony of his own words. “Right. So, you’d rather continue losing territory.” It’s bitter. Sarcastic.

“We are protecting LIVES, Captain.”

He can only shake his head at the intractableness. And he’s near-certain if this is the shit he’s getting, his counterpart must have been going out of his mind. It also speaks to a bigger problem within Starfleet—that their leaders have become entirely too pacifist. Too righteous to do the things that MUST be done. Is _this_ the Starfleet he’s served under all these years?  It makes him question his entire tenure of service.

But no. Lorca knows the powers that promoted him are long gone. _These_ admirals are a different sort. Perhaps he should have accepted the promotion when it came. Maybe he could have made a difference and talked some sense into these people. Maybe, had he taken that seat at the table, he could have stopped a war. As it is now, “We are ordering you to stand down, Captain Lorca.”

 _Stand down_.

He doesn’t even bother with a response before logging off.

They won’t listen, but he thinks he knows someone who will. There’s only one person who could understand what he’s considering. And it’s the one who has done it before.

.

.

Another restless, sleepless night finds them once again meeting on the observation deck. Neither is surprised to see the other there.

“Tell me something, Burnham,” Lorca says, staring out the window, the stars reflecting in his eyes. “What is your analysis of the situation?”

“We’ve been given orders,” she says, not looking at him.

 “But…” he prods her. “Tell me what you really think.”

“They’re wrong, sir.” Now she turns, and he sees the fire in her eyes, the glint that he’d seen in the moments before she’d shot his ass as he stepped off the platform in the transporter. That woman—he sees her now. The rebel, the mutineer, despite her regurgitation of Starfleet values, it amazes him that Michael truly cannot help what she is, especially when he knows she feels as if she’s right. And what she is, is a fighter. A like-mind.

“What would logic dictate?” His voice drops low. Hers does too. “The good of the many outweighs the good of the few. Or the one.”

“Or the two.”

They slip into silence, side-by-side.

 _He’s going to need someone who understands._ Admiral Cornwell’s final words to her before leaving. _Someone who has been there, before. You’re the closest thing to it._ It makes the hair on the back of Michael’s neck stand on end. The admiral had been prescient. Did she anticipate this? Michael wonders. She considers the words…the decision made to give Lorca command. A calculated risk. A weighted bet.

“Captain,” she says, turning to face him. He does, looking down into hers. “Perhaps there’s another way. We need to reach Admiral Cornwell.”

.

.

“If anything happens,” Katrina warns, “there will be denial. You two will be hung out to dry.”

“Aren’t we, already?” He asks bitterly. Michael puts her hand over his absently and he glances at her quickly. She tries to pull it away, but he gives two fingers a reassuring squeeze before letting them go.  

“We are expendable resources,” she says. “No one can do it but us. But it’s a risk I firmly believe we should take. We have two possibilities already in play.”

“Two?”

Katrina watches as Lorca glances at Michael. She nods at him.

“Yes. The jump drive, but I just realized that before we left—we were able to break the Klingon cloak. “We were in the process of transferring the relevant data but it was never completed,” she says.

It’s the first real smile Katrina has had in more than a year, and she sits up eagerly feeling a flicker of hope.

“Yes, specialist! Transmit as soon as possible, and Captain,” she looks at Lorca. “I’ll make sure Discovery gets the tracking data we’ve got. The more of them you can head off, the better position we will be in. But remember, if you fail…”

“We’re not going to fail,” he tells her. “Lorca out.”

From her position aboard the Leviathan, Katrina tries to overcome the initial rush she’s feeling. Her gut had told her leaving Lorca in charge was the best option. And her heart had told her keeping Burnham there was crucial as well. They have done together exactly what she’d hedged her position as an admiral on, come up with a solution to turn the tide of war.

She elects to ignore what else she saw.


	16. We Don't Trust You

**We Don’t Trust You**

“No.”

“Lieutenant,” Michael steps forward, pleading with Paul with her eyes, brows at an angle. He knows that look. Knows she believes what she’s saying. But just because Michael believes the lie behind her, doesn’t mean he does. And it’s pointed directly at this new-old incarnation of the man who ruined his life.

“You should have stayed dead…sir.”

Stamets doesn’t care about reprisal. Obeying orders is what got them to this place. And he’ll be damned before he takes another one from Gabriel Lorca. Any Gabriel Lorca.

 The Captain steps forward, putting himself between Burnham and Stamets.

“Specialist,” he tells her, looking into her face. “Leave us.”

Lorca can tell she doesn’t want to. It’s the twitch of her jaw, like she’s struggling to keep the words in, and he gives her a long, hard look. They watch each other. Paul watches them, with deepening concern. He doesn’t like what he sees. Even more so now than before.

Ultimately, Lorca wins, and with a short nod, she turns and climbs the stairs to exit through the ballast doors of the engineering bay.

It’s just Lorca and Stamets now.

“Just one jump,” the captain says, in a voice that’s more request than demand. Paul folds his arms, shakes his head.

“That’s what you said last time. My husband _died_.” Stamets pushes back, “you’ve said that before and nearly killed me. And _you_ are the one that brought that rat bastard Ash Tyler aboard.”

Lorca chuckles without humor. “Funny, Hugh called both of me something similar.”

At the mention of Hugh, Paul’s brave face crumbles.

“You have no right to say his name,” he says. “You didn’t know him.”

“I know enough,” Lorca says.

“Lieutenant Stamets,” he puts his commander voice on. “I don’t profess to know how the universe works. I leave that to you. But I am _not_ that man. I’ve had my own journey. I’ve experienced things I can’t explain—all I know is…” He weighs it. Hugh gave him a message for Paul.

“I can only say, that Hugh told me to tell you, that he’ll meet you at the Opera House.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on, I'll upload two chapters at a time. Make sure you get them both.


	17. Fight!

**Fight!**

The first dispatch comes through mere hours later.

“Black alert,” Lorca orders, as the lights begin to dim, and the warning sirens begin, mobilizing the crew into action. It’s the first battle for Discovery in more than a month, but they ready as if the last one were yesterday.

He takes his position in the chair and hits the comm.

“Engineering, status?”

“In place and ready, sir.” Tilly’s voice.

“Good. Lieutenant Detmer, on my mark. Lieutenant Rhys, Owosekun -- fire at will as soon as we drop shields and emerge. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” they say.

“Commander, Specialist, all set?”

“Aye, sir.” Saru and Burnham answer in unison with short nods.

Lorca looks out at the viewer and gives the command.

“Go.”

Discovery yawns as the saucers begin to rotate, and in a flash, they’re plunged immediately into orbit around Corrodus, opening fire and taking the Klingon cruiser by surprise. It’s destroyed in seconds, and just as quickly Discovery jumps away, leaving behind a field of debris. The bridge erupts with cheers. Even Saru, normally the picture of quietude, appears pleased. And when Lorca goes to assess systems afterward and is walking the corridors, he gets his first tentative smiles of approval from the crew.

A calculated bet with a tremendous payoff.

The Klingons never saw them coming or going.

 


	18. Scratching at the Edges

**Scratching At the Edges**

They have matters to discuss amongst themselves.

“You did well today.” Lorca makes the first overture. “That’s the kind of thinking I need next to me.”

Once again, the observatory plays host to late-night wanderers. Again, they stand side-by-side in front of the view port. His arms are crossed over his chest. In hers the tribble, sleeps, its body expanding and contracting evenly, the breathing a soothing rumble.  Michael looks ahead out of the window, appearing unmoved.  “He told me that, too. Once.”

“Oh.” Shit. Another one. The struggle to separate himself from the man that pretended to be him. More alike then they are different. Frustratingly so.

“I wonder if I did the same thing, to him…with him,” she says.

It’s the first time Michael has brought up Gabriel herself, and Lorca decides to see where this goes.

“It seems…likely,” he offers. “I encountered a few familiar faces over there, and I was struck by how they were all the same, yet…different.”

“The classic argument of nature versus nurture,” Michael says.

“Is it our environment that makes us, or our experiences?” He adds.

“Or, maybe we’re just born this way.” There’s real sadness there, grief in Michael’s words. She tenses, and he can feel it. It’s plain and unhidden and this time, he can’t pretend it’s not there. So he turns to look down into her face, his laced with concern.

“Did he tell you that?”

“No,” Michael says looking at him, eyes brimming with emotion. “Emperor Georgiou did.”

“Computer,” Lorca says, reacting before thinking. “Two to room 2-1-1-2”.

They don’t need to speak of this, here.  While the hour is late, the observatory is open and anyone can come through, at any time.

.

.

When they materialize again, in his quarters, he settles her on the couch. “Can I get you something?” He asks, going to the cabinet that stores the assortment of liquors and wines, and pours himself a glass of bourbon.  

“I don’t drink.”

“I’ve got tea.”

She nods and he prepares it, and returns with two cups in hand, giving the steaming one to her, before settling down at the chair at his desk, allowing space between them. 

Lorca waits a moment as she drinks, relaxing a bit more before asking his question. “You met Emperor Georgiou?” He leads.

A nod. “Yes. Over there, she is…was…my…mother. My adopted mother.”

Another drink of bourbon, its warmth welcoming as he works on just listening, matching what she tells him with the information Gabriel left behind and his own experiences in that world.

“You were upset a moment ago—Georgiou told you, you were born this way?”

 _Or maybe you were just built this way_ , Georgiou had said in her ear while holding a knife to her throat. Absently, Michael reaches up to touch her neck. “She believed I was a traitor,” she tells Lorca.

“Then I can only guess what she thought about me, the man who tried to usurp her,” he says drily.

Michael looks up sharply.

“Explain.” She demands.

“What?” He puts his cup down, feeling something shift between them. Michael, once open, is now closed.

“How do _you_ know what _he_ did over there?”

“You forget I was over _there_ while he was _here_ ,” Lorca says. “I _know_ the reputation of that universe’s Gabriel Lorca—probably better than _you_ do.”

They’re both defensive now. He finds himself defending his own counterpart. She finds herself defending hers.

They also both appear to realize it at the same time. That, and other things too.

“Tell me something Michael,” Lorca says slowly, studying the woman in front of him. “Who was he to you…in _this_ universe?”

She answers by abruptly picking up the tribble up from her lap, standing and leaving.

.

.

Lorca gets up, drinks the rest of the bourbon. Pours another. He can’t fault her, her demons. He’s got his own.

Her abrupt departure lets him know he’s hit on something. The brown liquid swirls slowly in the cup as he contemplates whether he should seek the truth…or let it come to him. Patience has never been one of his virtues. And if he knows himself like he thinks he does…

The commands are entered and the viewer comes on, casting his face in a dim glow. Lorca sits back and begins to go through the logs one by one from the beginning this time, listening for clues, evidence. They’re mostly Gabriel mundanely musing about the naivety of the Federation (Lorca remembers when he too, was a believer) and there are others, more tactical in nature. A reference to a woman, a Landry, and being “found” (he doesn’t know the name), yet nothing significant. Yet.

Until right as he’s beginning to think there was only one message—he finds another.

 A somber, shaken-looking Gabriel Lorca comes on screen. Lorca sits up immediately, taking a sip of his drink. He knows there’s something different about this particular entry. There are very few things that spook him, so he knows whatever has gotten to Gabriel must be earth-shattering.

_“I found you, love.”_

Even Gabriel’s voice is different. Quieter. Lower. No trace of arrogance in it, and it seems, he’s been taken down a peg. More introspective, almost…wistful?

“ _What did they do to you, Michael?”_ He hears himself, ask. _“Where’s your fire? Your light? Where have YOU gone? Where is MY Michael?”_

Gabriel seems to realize the irony of the words, and stops, shaking his head _._

_“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re not_ my _Michael. I know that. I know she’s…” he swallows. “I know she’s gone, but you’re here, and you…”_

_“Where is the Michael I read about?”_ Firmer now. Gabriel is getting his shit together quickly. _“I KNOW this isn’t you. They tried to tell you, you were wrong.”_ The eyes stare at the screen, becoming darker.

Lorca wonders if that’s how he is. Do his eyes change color like that, too when he’s agitated? Upset?

_“They want to tell you it’s your fault.”_

_“It’s NOT your fault, Michael. There would be war regardless of your actions. It’s the Klingon way. YOU were right. And they’re fools. Cowards. Your Federation is a lie. They want a scapegoat to cover for their complacency and cowardice and they’re trying to make you into it. You didn’t START a war, Michael. You tried to save them from themselves. It’s their fault they wouldn’t listen. I won’t let you be like them._

_You were born for something more. Destined for something greater and I REFUSE to let you live in sorrow and self-pity. I refuse to let you apologize, and I’m going to save you, Michael. I’m going to bring you back.”_

Gabriel gets up and reaches for the monitor. The screen goes dark. Lorca moves in to turn it off, but realizes the timer at the bottom is still going. It’s still recording. He fast-forwards a little bit. All of the footage is black. Maybe it’s done. But a faint flicker at the top corner catches his attention and he stops, rewinding a bit, and allowing it to play again.

Voices. Muted. Low. He turns up the volume to hear.

Two people. He recognizes Gabriel’s voice. And to his surprise, recognizes the other one. There’s a star date imprint and he checks to see when this was made.

Six months after the Battle of the Binary Stars. This must be around the time Michael first came onboard Discovery.

They’re talking. Or rather, Gabriel is talking in another part of the room, somewhere off-screen. The lights are off, the viewer, still dark.

 _“I asked you before,” Gabriel says. “And I ask you again. What's it to be, Michael? What's in your future? What do you wish for? Atonement? Redemption?”_ The screen is still black. Volume up as high as it can go. They still sound far away. Lorca doesn’t see the way Gabriel circles Michael, carefully, slowly. He can’t see the way Gabriel’s eyes meet hers, searching them. He doesn’t see the way Michael stands, eyeing him warily, still not yet fully trusting, despite her quiet acceptance of the offer moments before, down in engineering.

 _“And you wish to grant me those things,”_ Lorca hears her say, faintly.It is not a question. A statement. _“You assume power over a prisoner.”_

He doesn’t know that at the moment the words are spoken, Gabriel is standing in front of her.  

There’s a rustling sound. A zipping sound. _Undress?_ He thinks, imagination filling in the blanks. A quiet sigh. Muffled moan…

 _“I am neither your either captain nor your captor,”_ Gabriel replies, _“I’m just a man. You’re just a woman. Let us be this, tonight.”_

_“I do not trust you.”_

_“Trust has nothing to do with need, Michael. And I need you. What do you want? Name it. I will give you anything.”_

Michael’s voice is so soft, Lorca strains to hear her reply.

_“Deliverance.”_

They go quiet again. Rather, they stop speaking. Yet there other sounds. This time he doesn’t need his imagination to figure out what’s happening.

It’s in the hitch of breath, the squeak of a bed, and then more. A hell of a lot more, and he feels like a voyeur, peeking into her private, personal moments. Lorca gets up abruptly, turning off the screen and heads to the shower.

It’s a long one. A cold one, the sounds she makes run through his mind. There, and other places too.

His curiosity, that need to know, gone too far. He peeked behind the curtain and now he cannot un-see, nor un-hear.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ties directly into my story "A Natural Aversion to Light." If you want to know what Gabriel heard, that story is the answer.


	19. Ticking

**Ticking**

 He keeps status maps at the ready, real-time positions of both sides that the crew can monitor throughout the day. Lorca wants them to see it, wants them to know that what they’re doing matters, that the missions this ship is undertaking are making a difference. Slowly the front line begins expanding as the Federation takes back its territory, one colony, one starbase, one battle at a time. Discovery’s plan, Michael and Lorca’s plan, is working.

He makes sure to highlight the gains they make. Those Discovery is directly responsible for. It’s for crew morale. It’s for a group still trying to put the pieces of their broken and interrupted lives back together. It’s for them to know he’s a captain that has their back.  It’s not a perfect system, but it’s one that works for them as a unit.

Admiral Cornwell is keeping her end of the promise, feeding them information. It comes through encrypted channels. For now, Discovery remains a “rogue” vessel, with a “rogue” captain that is acting on its own—its Captain, first officer, and science specialist choosing the targets based upon strategic Federation needs. Someone has to do it since the admirals that remain, with the exception of Katrina, apparently don’t know how.

There’s been neither official condemnation nor acknowledgement of their actions. But Lorca doesn’t need it. Nor do his crew. They can all see it’s working.

The ship’s conference room has become the strategy room.

Around the table, are his chiefs: Specialist Michael Burnham. Commander Saru. Lieutenant Stamets.

Here, they study the map. Analyze and debate next steps. Weigh how the Klingons respond to Discovery’s moves.

After the morning meeting, they go about their business. But this time, Lorca asks Michael to stay back.

“Specialist,” he says. “A moment of your time.”

She nods and they wait until Saru and Stamets have departed.

“Are you upset with me?” Lorca asks.

“You’ve given me no reason to be displeased, sir.”

She’s equally as formal. He tries again.

“Have you been…resting?”

She knows what he means. It’s been nearly a month since she left his quarters abruptly. He’s not seen her in the observatory since. She has reported to her station dutifully each morning, but when not on duty, he can’t find her.

“I have been well.”

They’re getting nowhere, and so he decides to just stop. It’s not working. What he wants to say is that he misses her company. But at the rate he’s going with her, that’s likely to be misinterpreted.

“I’m glad for it. Dismissed, Specialist.”

She goes. His eyes follow as she does, tracing the slender curves of her figure.

.

.

That night he spots her. But she’s not in the observatory.

“I thought you were resting well,” Lorca asks catching up to Michael in the corridor. They walk side-by-side. In her hands is the tribble.

“Still no name, yet?” he observes. At the sound of his voice, the creature lets out a chirrup sound and begins to squirm excitedly in Michael’s arms. The sudden movements catch her by surprise as her pet wiggles itself out of her grip and she nearly drops him. She hands him over to Lorca.

“I think he likes you more than me,” she says drily as he takes it in hand.

“Jealous, specialist?” The tribble chirrups contentedly as Lorca holds it to his chest, the tiny, furry body inching its way up to nestle under his chin.

“So, a name?” He asks.

She shakes her head. As he strokes the creature, an idea comes to mind and Lorca smiles to himself and starts laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Michael looks at him, and he shoots her a devilish grin.

“I don’t think you’d get the reference.”

She raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms. “I was raised on Vulcan. There’s very little I don’t get.”

 _Like a sense of humor,_ he thinks.

 “Never mind,” Lorca says out loud.  They’ve stopped and are standing in the middle of a corridor. He detaches the tribble from his neck and hands him back to her and walks off.

Michael follows.

“I HAVE a sense of humor,” she defends, catching up to him.

“Oh really?”

“YES, really.”

“Fine.” He stops and turns to her.

“What’s black and white and red all over?”

“What?”

Michael blinks, confused. Lorca tries again.

“What’s black and white and red all over?”

“Are you speaking literally or figuratively?”

He rolls his eyes and smiles. “Thought so.” Lorca reaches down and gives the tribble an affectionate rub. “Night, Merkin,” he says, smirking to himself before heading off, leaving Michael alone.

Once back in her quarters, she goes to her PADD and looks up the word, “Merkin”.

A definition comes up on screen, along with a photo, and she covers her mouth in first shock at the sheer audacity of Lorca, and then, after a glance at her pet, she has to stifle her giggle in a pillow so as not to wake Tilly. After a while, when she manages to compose herself, she writes a message and hits send.

In his quarters, Lorca’s PADD vibrates, and he rolls over seeing a message pending.

He opens it.

“Very funny, sir. For the record, I believe my Merkin has a lot more fur.”

He bursts out laughing, wondering if Michael even realizes the double entendre at play. Probably not. But hell, who knows? At least she’s not mad at him anymore.


	20. Finding Oneself

**Finding Oneself**

_He ducks right in time, barely avoiding the phaser fire. It glances off the side of the wall, a tendril of smoke curling up from the impact point._

_“Lorca, let’s move!” the Andorian shouts, tucking and rolling out of the way as another volley of fire comes at them. They go. Shooting back. Aiming tight. Several Terran guards go down._

_On the other side there’d been training simulations, and he’s been in a few skirmishes at some of the more remote colonies, but nothing like this. Bodies fall, dead. Not stunned._

_There’s no coming back for them._

_He’s not stopped long enough to tell whether he has any remorse. It’s about survival here. Kill, or be killed. And he’s damn sure not coming out on the latter side._

_There’s really only one choice._

_Good thing he’s always been a great shot._

_These weapons are set to kill, not stun…_

Lorca’s eyes snap open into darkness and he lies there, exhaling deeply. It’s been more than 400 days since he slept through the night. He huffs and gets up, giving up on more for the evening. The time reads 0300. _Fuck._ He just went down at 2400. But this is the norm. Over there, in the other universe, he never got more than snatches of sleep at a time. It takes six weeks to form a habit. He spent a year and a half, there.

 _Screw it,_ he thinks, pulling on a long-sleeved, fleet-issue shirt with pants and stepping into a pair of casual shoes. _Let the night time wandering commence_.

By now, the path is familiar. It just depends on the order of their arrival.

Sometimes, he’s there before she is. Sometimes, it’s the opposite. But there’s always the expectation they’ll find each other. Tonight does not disappoint. Michael is there when he walks through and she waits until he comes to stand beside her by the window.

“Good morning. Where’s my Merkin?” He teases.

It gets something he’s never seen from her. A tiny, curl of the lips.

Lorca plays shocked, eyes wide. “What? Is that a smile I see?”

Michael tries to school her face back into the mask, but it’s too late.

“Oh, no you don’t! I saw that.”

This time, she does smile. A real one for him, and to his real shock, she chuckles, too.  “I DO have a sense of humor, sir.”

He snickers and holds up his hands in a peace gesture. “You got me. So, what brings you wandering tonight?”

Slowly, the smile fades and she glances out the window.

“I’ve been thinking,” she tells him. “About that last battle.”

“What about it?” He asks.

“Did you feel anything? When we blew up their ship? It was crippled, sir.”

Did he feel anything?

It’s not Starfleet’s way to fire on disabled vessels. Federation rules state to offer assistance, even to one’s enemies. But this is war. And rules went out the window a year and a half ago….

“Do you want me to be honest,” Lorca says slowly, “or do you want me to lie?”

Michael studies him, her face tilted up into his.

“Honesty.”

“Then the answer is no.”

Her face is still, but her eyes get darker, deeper and he feels like he can see straight through to her soul. “Have you ever killed before?” She asks, waiting.

“Many times.”

“Me too.” She glances away.

“Do you feel guilty about that?” He tries to figure out where she’s going with this and is surprised when she shakes her head.

“No. And that is what bothers me.”

The levity from moments ago is gone now. His own lack of guilt bothers him too. But he stopped thinking about it a long time ago.

“I’m sure you did what you had to do,” he tells her. “Kill or be killed, Michael. It’s how we survive, now.”

“You sound like him, again.”

Lorca sighs. “I thought you didn’t want me to lie?”

“I don’t. I just…I’m beginning to wonder if the sacrifice of ideals is worth it.”

Ideals. He remembers a time when he held them just as close as she does now. But that was a very long time, and a multitude of experiences ago.

“I can’t answer that one for you,” Lorca says with a bitterness so acute, it strikes her.  “I stopped believing in Starfleet ideals a while back. Didn’t Starfleet ideals get us into this in the first place?”

She doesn’t answer, and he’s immediately aware he’s struck a sore spot.

“Michael, I…”

“It’s just the truth,” she says stopping him, mid-apology.

He elects not to continue. Instead they stand there, together, watching the stars.


	21. Unfinished Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to "TheAlexofEvil" for her editing!

**Unfinished Business**

“You never answered my question.” The question that’s been lingering for weeks, now.

Another night. He doesn’t know why he’s so stuck on it, so insistent on wanting to hear her side. If she’ll tell him. They’ve retreated from the observation deck to his quarters.

“What question?” She asks.

“Were you two…intimate?”

It happens again. His answer is in how quickly she moves, getting up to leave. But this time he catches her hand, and he pulls her back down to the couch, holding on to her—not too tight, but it’s clear he wants answers, and it’s clear she doesn’t want to give them.

Inside, her mind races, trying to find a way to deflect Lorca from this line of questioning. Michael knew better than to think he was done with it, but when he didn’t raise it again, she figured he’d moved on. Now it’s clear he’s not. And she’s not comfortable speaking of this. She’s told no one. Had vowed never to tell or speak of it, _they_ hadn’t spoken of it, even between themselves, and for this Gabriel to want to know whether she was intimate with the other Gabriel… The answer to his question is yes.

Gabriel didn’t allude to it again—until he tried to get her to stay with him. Over there. And damn her human heart—that she so desired to say yes, and it was only stubborn pride that stopped her. She’d convinced herself she was far angrier at him at the moment than she really was. She’d convinced herself that his deceit warranted a punishment but if she’d known that it would mean losing him…

“There are many definitions of…intimacy.”

He doesn’t buy it.

Lorca knows all Michael’s tricks, by now. She’s not going to wiggle out of it. She’s going to give him a straight answer.

“Fine. If you’re going to try and deflect. Let me ask again. Did you have sex with him?”

The question is direct, leaving no room for any sort of misinterpretation and she’s not accustomed to having something so deeply personal brought up. It throws her off. Makes her cringe and the memory that rises with the words is as sharp and clear as if it happened moments before. She can feel the warmth of Gabriel’s breath on her neck, his lips, slightly rough, kissing and grazing over her neck.

The memory makes her skin tighten, goosebumps. But her nipples do too, and she shifts, feeling the tingle between her legs. She clenches her knees together.

 _A purely physiological reaction,_ she tells herself. A fear response. Involuntary stimulation. Excitement. It will pass.

It’s written all over her face.

Lorca watches as she flushes, a red hue under her brown skin that makes her radiate. He can also tell, by the way her eyes cast downward, long lashes flutter. 

 “It was only once.” She can’t look at Lorca. But he can’t look away from her, so obvious in her arousal and looking ashamed of it. Guilty.  As if what they did was wrong. He can’t say either way. Lorca knows Gabriel doesn’t believe what he did was wrong. But he can see that what Michael believes what she did, was.

“It’s okay,” he tells her, loosening his hold on her wrist, and laying a hand over hers. “You don’t have to say anymore.”

She feels guilty because she wanted.

…It’s the devil on his shoulder, the one he knows he should ignore, but it’s insistent and…

“Michael,” he takes her cheek in hand, guiding her face to his, their lips inches apart. Lorca knows he’s going to straight to hell. But the pull is undeniable, and he cannot break away from her face, his eyes drinking all of her in. “Do you want me, too?”

One question. Two choices.

She nods.

Their first kiss is tentative. But it sends a rush through him, and he feels himself begin to come alive in a way that he hasn’t in…. way too long.

Every single alarm is going off—telling both of them that they shouldn’t do it. Should stop this, quit while they’re falling behind. That it’s neither productive, nor healthy—a response to trauma manifesting in the wrongest of ways…but the kiss deepens on its own accord, and slowly shoes, pants, jackets, shirts, bra, underwear…it all forms a path to the bed, where bodies find a rhythm that starts slow, and gradually becomes more and more intense, until the sound of lovemaking begins to ring like a symphony all around.

He watches her in fascination, watches as even in sex, she tries to control her own pleasure, tamp down on it. Deny it.

“Don’t do that.” He takes her hands and puts them over her head, feeling her shiver. She can’t hide like this. She’s beautiful and bare and what he wants is to run his tongue down her skin. So he does, kissing the side of her neck, her shoulder. Clavicle. Anywhere his mouth can touch. She responds by clenching around him, and he slows his pace, taking care to control himself.

“Look at me,” he commands, and eyes open for him. She trembles, gasps and he leans low, still holding her hands and whispers into her ear.

“I want you to come for me.”

He refuses to let her close her eyes. Stays focused on her face, watching her every reaction. Slowly, he breaks down her resolve, strips off her mask, and they go faster, and faster until everything fades away and it’s just the two of them and he has to anchor himself as she comes and says his name, the force of her orgasm so strong it triggers his.  He follows her with a shout, Michael’s hands gripping the back of his neck, pulling him down, and her body drinking him in, granting him safe harbour.

The last waking thought Lorca has is that he doesn’t know if it was really him she was calling for...

Exhaustion finally claims them. It’s the first time in a long time either sleeps fully through the night.


	22. We're All Broken People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of posting. Just bought a house. Trying to get it ready for move-in.  
> Thanks to thealexofevil for edits!

**We’re All Broken People**

The first sensation is the feel of something warm, soft and feminine tucked against his body. Lorca shifts, lazily sliding a hand up a hairless thigh, tracing up curved hips and down a slender waist, coming to rest against a flat stomach and pull her close.

“Mmm…Katrina,” he murmurs in sleep-induced delirium, nuzzling her neck.

_Katrina._

The name is what wakes her, abruptly, bringing her out of dreamless sleep and slamming back into cold reality.

Oh no.

She stays still, hoping he doesn’t hear the heavy beating of her heart in her chest. And when she thinks he’s asleep again, Michael unwraps herself from his embrace and carefully gets out of bed. She doesn’t turn around as she gathers her clothes off the floor as quickly and quietly as she can, hurriedly trying to escape. He rolls over and finds the spot warm, but empty, and opens his eyes and sees her, slipping on her shirt and grabbing her jacket

“Michael?” It’s groggy, at first, but quickly becomes sharper as he starts to realize what he did, what he said.

“Michael wait!” Lorca climbs out bed quickly, uncaring about his own state of undress as he tries to catch her.

“No.” She says before slipping out the door, leaving him there, naked as the day he was born.

This time, he curses aloud, slamming a hand against the wall to steady himself.

“Fuck!”

He plants his forehead head on the surface, feeling the urge to just beat his head against the wall a few good times, but instead, after a long moment, deciding against such measures slinking off to the shower, turning the water up as hot as it will go, and getting in. The best form of self-flagellation he has at the moment, and it’s damn near scaling, the spray stinging at his skin.

He can’t believe he did that. It’s wasn’t a conscious thought. It was…

_You called her Katrina. HOW could you be so stupid, Lorca?_

They should have stopped last night. He shouldn’t have done what he did, instigated what he had, and now…

Now what?

.

.

She makes her way quickly down the corridor, into the turbo lift and back down two more passageways before finally, reaching her own quarters. Tilly is already up and moving when Michael bursts through the door.

“Hey—“

It gets lost as Michael brushes past and goes straight to the bathroom. The door closes and the water turns on leaving Tilly to puzzle at her behaviour.

She sniffs the air in Michael’s wake. And decides against going to meet up with a few of her friends. Instead, Tilly settles on the edge of the bed to wait until Michael comes out.

It’s a long wait.

Inside, she scrubs her body until almost every inch of skin feels raw - scrubs and scrubs, trying desperately to get him out of her and off her, while at the same time failing to contain the absolute sense of devastation she feels, hurt worse than Ash ever inflicted, and she can only blame herself. Why does the universe continue to punish her like this? Perhaps because it knows physical torment doesn’t work. She’s too tough for that. So it attacks her where she’s weak. Her emotions.

 _“He seduced you, too_ ,” Georgiou had said. She’d denied vehemently. Passionately. But she can’t now.

Michael is all scrubbed out.

The water shuts off, and she stands in the sonic dryer for a moment, before putting on pyjamas.

It’s her day off. All she wants to do is hide.

Tilly looks up as Michael comes back out and she moves to say something, but the look on her friend’s face silences it. It reminds Tilly of how Michael looked when they first met. Like a woman defeated.

She watches as her friend pulls back the blankets and climbs into bed, turns away from her, and curls up into herself.


	23. Don't Speak

**Don’t Speak**

_“Specialist.”_

_“Captain.”_

_._

_._

_“Burnham.”_

_“Sir.”_

_._

_._

_“Michael.”_

_No response._

_._

_._

_Can we talk? –A text._

_I have nothing to say._

_You’re saying something now._

_No answer._

_._

_._

He stops trying for the time being. It’s probably better anyway, all things considering. Even if she did speak to him, what exactly would he say?

_“I’m sorry for sleeping with you.” That one, would be an outright lie. He’s not._

_“I’m sorry for saying another woman’s name?” It’s true, but…_

_“I didn’t mean it?” There’s some deeper stuff going on there. He can’t say he didn’t. He can’t say he did._

_“I thought you were someone else?”_ On that one, he gets up and goes to the liquor cabinet. Trusty Bourbon. It has quickly become his best friend. Gabriel’s liquor stash has decreased by approximately half in the five months Lorca has been back in his rightful universe.

He doesn’t even bother with a cup. Taking the bottle straight to the head.

The truth is a hell of a lot more complicated, and he’s not quite ready to deal with it yet.

Better to leave well enough alone _._

_And what about her?_

Another swig. He can’t help but remember the way his name sounded Michael's her lips. Yearning. Wanting. The thought comes again, same as it did before.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one. Maybe, they did the same thing. Only he got caught. It’s certainly a hell of a lot easier for her to lie, especially when the person she wants shares the same name as the one she doesn’t.

The first bottle of bourbon disappears completely.

Dammit. 

Damn it all. 

The liquor burns. But not enough, in his opinion, and he goes for another. 

.

.

“Wow, four nights in a row,” Tilly comments when Michael wakes up. She turns her head and looks at her roommate.

“What?”

“I’m just saying—for the past four nights, you’ve actually stayed here—like, the whole night.”

Why did she think Tilly hadn’t noticed?

Michael turns away and looks up at the ceiling.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Tilly has half a mind to say something else but she stops herself, knowing it likely won’t be received very well. She may be young, but she’s not dumb. And there’s something up with Michael and Captain Lorca—much more than there was with Michael and the _other_ Captain Lorca. And whatever is wrong with her friend, she’s pretty sure it’s the present Lorca’s fault.

So when she sees him in the all, and he greets her, she gives him stink eye and a curt “good day, _captain_ ,” before heading away. After all, he’s still the captain. Not like she can rail at him the way she really wants too.


	24. A Daring Strike

**A Daring Strike**

An idle mind is a dangerous one. An overactive mind borders on the insane.

With no one to temper his thoughts and in desperate need of distraction, Lorca’s mind has been in overdrive.

“That sounds…risky, sir,” Saru says, shaking his head.

“Not just risky—it sounds suicidal, Captain! You want us to jump into Klingon territory, surrounded by the enemy?” Stamets exclaims.

“We’d be in and out, take out a few cruisers, show them we’re just as capable of striking close,” Lorca defends. “We’ve been playing defence and it’s working. Now it’s time to go on offence.”

“This isn’t a game, Captain. Starfleet is still vastly outnumbered and out-gunned. We can’t risk our people for something like that. And I’m the one that has to drive this thing!”

“But what are the risks if we do nothing?” Burnham speaks up after listening a while. They look at her. “We are slowly turning this war,” she says. “But if we want to make serious gains, we have to be willing to take greater risks. The probability of failure is—“

“Astronomical, specialist,” Saru says, frowning. “A guaranteed certainty.”

“So was Pahvo,” she tells the first officer. He stares at her a long while. Michael has never revealed his failings on the planet—his mutiny against the mission—and she never will, but both know. He quiets.

“And yet, despite those odds, we won.”

“I’m not going for some blazing victory,” Lorca tells the engineer. “But we need to send a message. A strong one. Two jumps. In—do some damage—and out. Quick and dirty. They won’t know where we came from and won’t know where we’re going. We want to rattle them. Knock them further off balance.

“You’re both out of your minds,” Stamets says. But it’s clear there’s consensus.

.

.

They’re not in and out.

It quickly becomes a cluster. Discovery ends up jumping into the midst of five Klingon cruisers, and the ships immediately open fire.

“Evasive manoeuvres,” Lorca barks, trying to assess the patterns of the enemy ships. He scans the view screen quickly, identifying positions. And calls out the coordinates.

 “Lieutenant Rhys, fire at will and keep firing,” he says, as Discovery takes a hit on her starboard. The ship shudders from the impact, making them stumble a bit, but all remain standing.

“Shields at 90 percent,” Saru says, his slender fingers skimming quickly across the console.

The ship does a wide turn, sending out two photon torpedoes at different points in the maneuver. They find their targets. The first cruiser explodes, the second begins listing, missing a nacelle.

But the volley of shots hasn’t stopped. Discovery jerks again.

“Shields at 82 percent,” Saru says. “Reports of injuries on deck seven.”

 Three more.

Lorca yells out another set of coordinates and Lieutenants Detmer and Owosekun work the controls. The ship picks up speed.

“Fake them out,” he tells the helm. “Go under them.”

The cruisers are fast. But Discovery is faster, and sure enough, two of the ships collide. One spins off, the other is crippled, but not out and there’s still one more left to go.

“Sir, they’ve locked on to our…outer ring.

 _Shit._ If the ring is hit, they can’t jump. Which means they’ll be stuck.

 “Saru, divert 60 percent more power to forward shields,” He commands.

It goes up right as two missiles head straight toward them. “Brace for impact!”

The missiles find their target.

Down in engineering, sparks fly. Tilly ducks under a console, and inside the spore drive chamber, Stamets feels his stomach lurch.

“Reports of fires in engineering,” Saru says. “Fires on decks two, eight, and 10. Sickbay reporting injuries…. Wait… wait… Captain!”

“What is it Mr. Saru?” Lorca says, quickly assessing the best way to bring this to a close.

“Sir, it’s the transporter room. They’re reporting incoming.”

“Incoming?”

Saru puts it on the speaker.

“We’re being boarded!” He hears the panic in the techs voice, followed by the sound of disruptor fire and the glottal commands. Klingons.

Fuck that. Not on my watch. Not on my ship.

“Mr. Saru,” Lorca says moving fast. “Get security on it. And take out that crippled ship and blast that last one to hell.

Saru nods briskly. “Aye, sir.”

“Burnham,” the captain looks to her as he goes to the side of the door, removing the wall panel and taking out two phaser rifles, tossing her one.

“Let’s go.”

She nods, setting hers to kill.

_._

.

They clear the hall as they go.

“Move,” he commands as they make their way toward the transporter area. There are injured crewman but they manage to get out of the way, allowing Burnham and Lorca to pass. It’s the tubes instead of the lifts, and they know they’re getting close when the sound of screams, roars and fire reaches them. The two drop down from a Jefferies tube right in time for Lorca to pull a security officer out of the way of a disruptor blast. The shot misses, hits the wall and Michael fires back, getting a chest shot. The Klingon goes down.

“How many are there?” He asks as their forces trade fire.

“About 10 more, sir,” an ensign tells him.

Another Klingon comes around the corner and runs dead into the blunt end of Michael’s rifle. She takes him out.

“We need to move, sir!” She says. He nods in agreement. “Let’s go,” he tells the group.

They split off, staying low, and begin to advance. The corridor between the transporter room and the turbo lift quickly becomes a bloody battlefield. Michael jumps back, barely missing a disruptor fire as it grazes by her, striking the security officer behind her. She tucks and rolls her body moving fast, right up under the legs of the Klingon, taking him down. The one nearest Lorca glances in surprise and it’s what he needs to charge as well.

They’re all in close proximity and it becomes an all-out brawl as they begin to fight. Some with guns, some without.

 The numbers are dwindling.

Lorca takes a hit to the face—so hard his head snaps to the side and he sees stars a moment before coming back to reality, sinking down to grab a phaser and fire. The Klingon disappears into sparks.

Over at the far end, Michael is dodging blows, left and right, searching for a weapon, something—to stop the advance. But her attacker is bigger and stronger and shit, there’s gotta be something…there. The floor. A fallen disruptor. She makes a jump for it, and grabs it, turning around and shooting, getting her target.

A quick scramble to her feet. She sees Lorca go down.

“Captain!”

But before she can get to him, a large shape steps into her line of sight.

Michael raises her disruptor, but freezes, seeing the face. Pale. Features sharp.

He feels…familiar.

“I’ll shoot!” She says, only to get a mocking laugh in return as he advances. She backs up, nearly tripping on a body, trying to overcome the rising tide of panic. She feels. She can’t close her eyes. She can’t look away, but she also can’t pull the trigger.

Her hands shake, weapon still trained on him.

“Are you scared, hu-man?” He asks in English. Her heart races, knowing she needs to pull the trigger, but all she can see is Voq…No…Tyler… No… Voq…he was Voq.

Her fingers tremble.

Lorca dispatches the last of the Klingons and looks up right in time to see one more. And Michael. He doesn’t think—just goes, charging and tackling the Klingon to the ground. One of the security officers shoots, aiming for the head.

It’s done.

 He gets up and the rest of the security team lowers their rifles.

Lorca turns, seeing Burnham, frozen to the spot, gun still pointed, a look of shock and fear on her face.

“Michael,” he says, as quietly and gently as he can. “Put down the weapon. It’s over.”

But her hands are shaking and in the moment, she looks exactly like Katrina did when he stepped off the transporter and he knows if he makes any sudden moves, Michael may very well shoot him again, and Klingon disruptors don’t have a stun setting.

“Michael,” Lorca tries again. “Can you give me the disruptor?”

Her eyes glance at him, and he walks toward her slowly, carefully, until he’s close enough to put a hand on the tip of the disruptor, and lower it, then take it from her, moving his body between hers, shielding her from the rest of the security team. To them, it just looks like the captain and specialist are standing there talking, and he wants it that way. Because he knows Michael doesn’t like weakness and would hate it if anyone saw her like this.

“Can you guys get this cleaned up?” He calls over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Torres, tells him. “Already on it.”

“Good. Computer,” he says, voice low. “Two to beam to room 2-1-1-2.”

They’re gone in a wash of light, only to materialize in his quarters, where he steers a still-in-shock Michael down to the couch and comes to kneel in front of her.

“I’ll be back, alright?”

She barely nods and he gets up to go. First to the bridge. Then to sickbay.

Once back in Federation territory, he gets a readout of the ship’s damages. Dozens of injuries, some in serious yet stable condition. Five crewmen dead—security. Damages on multiple decks but - Saru tells him - nothing too drastic that a few weeks won’t fix. “Eight days,” he tells the XO. He wants to be ready as soon as possible.

In Sickbay, he goes to each biobed, thanks each crewman individually, and tells the doctor to let him know when the two others are out of surgery.

“Saru, you have the conn,” he tells the Kelpian.

“Sir, what about you?”

“Huh?”

“You need to tend to your injuries.”

Is he injured?

Lorca reaches up and touches his face. Something wet. Sticky, near his temple. He looks at his fingers and rubs two together. Red. Blood.

“I’m fine.”

“But sir?”

“I said I’m _fine_ , Mr. Saru.” Firmer, now. “Oversee repairs. I’ve got the reports and I’ll look them over in my quarters.”

“Aye, sir.”

PADD in hand, Lorca makes his way back up the turbo lift, to his deck.

He enters his rooms cautiously.

“Michael?”

Silence.

It’s dark.

“Lights, 30 percent.” They rise to a dim glow, and he spots her exactly where he left her. On the couch. But she’s laying down now, turned away from him, and curled up.

Carefully, he slips his arms around her back and knees and rolls her into his arms, lifting her up and carrying her to bed, where he lays her down and takes off her boots. He folds the other half of the blankets around her and goes back to the living room to just breathe a moment.

Wine feels appropriate and he pours himself a glass. She’s here, again. Slowly turning him into a functioning alcoholic.

Now that Discovery is no longer in danger, the adrenaline rush is starting to fade as well. He feels a headache coming on. That, and fatigue.


	25. Lions and Tigers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which pretenses fail, and people start getting honest.

**Lions and Tigers**

A moaning sound wakes him.

“Michael?”

That, and rustling. He gets up, glancing at the half-empty bottle on the table, and goes to the sleeping alcove.

“Michael?”

She’s tossing and turning, blankets thrown off, but she’s not awake. A thin sheen of sweat covers her, and he knows from experience what’s happening. A nightmare.

Lorca shakes her gently.

“It’s okay. Wake up.”

“Noo…”

“Come on,” a harder shake now. “Wake up, Michael, it’s alright.”

“Noo….”

She shies away from him, but still doesn’t wake. And he becomes worried when she starts to move more. Like she’s…running? Fighting?

“Michael!” a hard, forceful shake and she comes to with a scream and a swing simultaneously.

“Ash, NO!”

He catches a fist right to the chest and it damn near takes the wind out of him.

Michael sits up, bewildered and breathing hard, shaking. Once Lorca gets his breath back, he looks at her.

“Hey.”

A cough, and rub of the chest.

“Bad dream?”

Slowly, she turns to face him and hearing a voice seems to anchor her back in reality for the moment. She nods.

“Stay here a moment,” he tells her before getting up and going to the bathroom. The controls on the shower are activated, and he pulls down towels for her before returning.

“Shower should help,” he says.

She nods again and gets up to go, and he remakes the bed and settles down in the living alcove to give her privacy. He took one earlier to ease his aching muscles. Time is a bitch on the body, for sure, and he hasn’t exactly treated his with tender love and kindness. He feels every inch of 52 right about now though. All the way through to the bones. He will never admit it, but that fight with the Klingons did a number on him. Frankly, he’s surprised he didn’t break or sprain anything, but his body definitely wasn’t okay with the rest of it.

After a while, the water turns off, and it becomes quiet. Lorca waits a few more minutes, before getting up and going into the room. He spots her, wrapped in a towel, sitting on the bed, hands in lap, and looking at the floor.

“Feeling better?”

Michael looks up at him. “I…don’t have anything to wear,” she says quietly.

_Oh._

That, he hadn’t thought about. But…

“Here,” he hands her one of his shirts and turns away, hearing the towel come off.

“You can turn around now, sir.”

He does and sees her, and can’t help the tiny smile that comes at the sight. Out of uniform, she seems…far smaller than he believed she was. Slight. The shirt reaches her knees, the sleeves, her elbows. She’s almost dwarfed in it, but the sentiment is followed by another image—equally as strong, of Katrina, in their early days, waking up and stealing his shirts. He’d find her eventually, busing around the house, or reclining in the living room reading, always in his shirts. He’d asked her once, why his? When she had her own and she’d shrugged and told him they were comfortable. He didn’t complain, kinda loved the way she looked in them, really. It gave him a sense of propriety—not that he owned her, no. She was very much her own woman, but it was something that tickled at the back of his reptilian brain then and now, seeing Michael draped in his clothes. It does the same—that familiar tingle there, and other places too.

So he sits beside her, but at a safe distance.

“What happened down there?” He asks, careful not to sound as if he’s judging her. “You froze.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Not what I asked.”

When Michael speaks again, he has to strain to hear her.

“He looked like someone I knew.”

“Ash?”

A slow nod.

Lorca knows only a little of it. The former security chief. It’s still something he doesn’t quite understand. Some sort of human-Klingon hybrid? Kat hadn’t talked much about the man he’d only come across snatches—just that the Lieutenant was responsible for the death of one of the doctor’s—Stamets’ husband. But why would this give Michael a nightmare? With her, there’s never a simple explanation and he supposes, he should just ask. She doesn’t volunteer information, but she will respond if he asks.

So he does.

“I don’t really understand it,” he tells her. “What was he? A Klingon experiment?”

“No. He was, IS, a Klingon. His name was Voq.”

“Then why does he look human?”

Her eyes close slowly and open the same way and she turns to look at him.

“They broke his bones,” Michael tells him. ”Flayed his skin. Cut his fingers, his toes. All while he was awake. They shortened his body to match ours, re-designed his features—eyes, nose, teeth—everything. They destroyed Voq and molded him into the image of Tyler.”

“Wouldn’t he have known this?”

“No. From what I’ve learned, there was a Lieutenant Tyler. But he was killed. They took his memories and overlaid them over Voq’s mind so that he would behave as a human. But…”

“Let me guess, it didn’t work.”

“Or it worked too well.” She wraps her arms about herself and he feels his stomach twist.

“He fooled you.”

Just when he thinks he knows Michael, she reveals yet another layer.

“He fooled everyone.”

“But you, especially.”

“I thought…I believed, wanted to believe…that he was the…best choice”, she tells him.

“Between?”

“Between him, and you.”

And you. His counterpart. The other Gabriel. 

“Did you love him, Ashl?”

Michael shakes her head.

“I tried to,” she says. “I thought I did. I wanted to.”

“And what about Gabriel? Did you love him?”

“I was afraid…”

“Of him?” Lorca looks at her, the surprise evident.

But she shakes her head. “No. You misunderstand me. I wasn't afraid of him.  I was afraid of _loving_ him. And Ash, I believed, was the safer choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by a Jasmine Sullivan song.


	26. Come To Me/ I'm Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel Lorca shares his truth, and reveals why he and Katrina failed.

 

**Come To Me**

He’s floored by her insight into her own motivations. Yet, as he thinks about what Michael has just told him—it feels as if she has voiced a truth he’s been in denial of a long time. That he did the same thing with Katrina.

She was right, in her anger at him. Gabriel’s invasion was the straw that severed them, but they had been broken for far longer. Their purchase of the house in Tahoe was their last chance to make it work—and it only happened because he’d forced her into it. Because _he_ was finally ready. Twenty-five years later, and he was finally ready. Selfish is what he’d been. All those years and opportunities missed and wasted. He’d been angry at Katrina at times, bitter toward her too. Pissed, when she decided to get a life for herself after waiting for him for the first five years, and he won’t deny it—he’d coveted her marriage from afar while refusing her calls, her letters, every attempt she made to contact him, he rejected. And he’d been secretly pleased when her marriage ended. She’d told him she was lonely, that she didn’t want to wait for anymore, and he’d spited her a full year by fucking around with someone else—until the night he’d slipped up and ended up back in Kat’s bed. Drunk out of his head and pouring out his heart and confessing eternal love.

She’d forgiven him, too.

Forgiven him all his faults, and his failings, and he was loyal for exactly three years. Staying planet-side at Starfleet and landing a teaching gig. He’d tried to be domestic for her. That’s what he tells himself. That he _tried_.

It’s what he says out loud to Michael, that he tried.

Lorca doesn’t realize he’s talking aloud, and wisely Michael doesn’t interrupt as he drinks and speaks, staring at the wall, voice low. Reflecting.

“I lied to myself,” he says quietly. “I lied to her.”

He was nowhere near ready to settle down. At night when KAT was asleep he’d slip outside and just look up at the stars, itching for it. Burning for it, longing to be _up there._ Where there was adventure and excitement—and _fun_ —to escape the mundanity of dirt-side routine, but only for Kat did he stay.

She told him she was pregnant.

“I loved her.”

But those words are whispered now. Shakier.

Lorca has ditched the glass and has gone straight toward the bottle. More bourbon to ease the rising tide of regrets.

He remembers the panic he felt when she told him, but she was so happy about it and he knew damn well if he said anything of the sort he’d lose her. So he’d forced a smile and said he was happy too. And he was…but he dreaded what it would mean. That he’d be stuck down _here_. It wasn’t that he didn’t want a kid, but not _now_ ….all he could think of were all the things he thought he’d have to give up—the chance for another commission, another ship, another mission—all that would have to be turned down…Kat was content to do it, she had her practice, her patients, but he was already chafing at being tied to a desk, and teaching required a sort of patience he didn’t really have and…

_But I loved her._

To Michael’s ears, it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. She doesn’t know if he realizes she’s still there, and stays quiet. This feels like it’s something Lorca has never admitted, not even to himself, and it also feels that it’s something that _must_ be said. There’s no roadmap for what they’re doing. What they’ve been doing, but what he reveals to her now, she can tell, is painful.

There should have been grief.  He should have _felt_ grief.

When he went to Kat, saw her curled up in the bio bed, with bloodshot eyes and a tear-streaked face, the first feeling he had was relief. Immediately chastised by guilt. _This_ is what continues to haunt him. He feels guilty because he didn’t feel worse.  But what pained him most about the loss of that baby was that Katrina was so hurt by it while he felt liberated. He waited until he felt it was appropriate and told her that he couldn’t cope—he’d used the loss as an excuse to plan his escape, to say that he just couldn’t deal with it, could take the hurt he didn’t feel. Lied and said it was too much, too soon and that he was sorry, that he felt he was the burden and that he would leave if it caused her pain…

Lies. All lies.

Because once he was gone again he was missing her like crazy and just too proud to tell her he was wrong.

And their foolishness started all over again.

Around and around we go.

Like missed connections in space.

Sometimes, they met at a starbase. Sometimes during a shore leave. Three days, a week. Two. She travelled up. He travelled away. Yes, there were other women, none serious. No relationship lasted more than a month, most were matters of mere convenience. The only woman who meant anything to him was her.

“I was afraid…”

Afraid until he got tired of pissing around. Bored with it. Was ready to settle down and he just _assumed_ Katrina would be there. He had assumed she still be waiting, and he was finally in the right place, it was the right time for him. He turned down an admiral promotion and surprised himself that he did it so easily, so set was he on building this next, best life -- with Katrina. He couldn’t wait to tell her what he did, feeling that he was giving her what she always wanted. He thought she’d be happy. He had everything ready that night. A ring, too—long overdue, but still meaningful and he was ready to show her he was finally serious and ready to commit to them.

“She had news too.”

They’d never fought has long and as bitterly as that night.

He never got to give her the ring. When she said she was taking her promotion to rear admiral he couldn’t believe it. When she said five more years with Starfleet he’d been shocked. Angry. His first reaction to anything was a default to anger. That was the night he started contemplating mortality.

Neither of them were getting younger. That was the night he started realizing how much time they had lost. How much she’d sacrificed for him, and he’d felt true remorse, true guilt for more than two decades of selfishness. His compromise was to sign up for another five years. He did it for her, to let her live the dreams she’d put on hold waiting for him.

It sounds good to say.

“I was afraid…”

“Of…Admiral Cornwell?”

This time, Michael speaks and Lorca drains the rest of his bourbon, studying the empty bottle intently rotating it between his hands, weighing it. The truth. His truth.

He shakes his head and slowly turns to look at Michael with bloodshot eyes.

“No.” He tells her.

“I was afraid of loving her.”

.

.

Typically, Lorca has been the one putting her to bed. Tonight he passes out on the couch, and she brings the blankets out to the vestibule and settles next to him, tucking her legs up under her, and leaning against his body, wrapping the bedding around them both, and falling asleep listening to the thrum of his heartbeat.

But in the morning, when he wakes up, Michael is already gone.

Lorca knows what he said. What he revealed, and in that moment, his heart stops and doubt creeps in.

Maybe he shouldn’t have told the truth. Maybe he shouldn’t have revealed his demons, his regrets. What does she think of him now?

.

.

A shower doesn’t help.

Neither do the two headache/nausea pills he pops on the way to the bridge.

And he’s near certain he looks like hell by the way the crew stare at him, then glance at each other. He waves to Saru that he’ll be in the ready room, and he passes Michael without a word.

Once the doors close, he slumps against the wall, head pounding, mouth dry.

“Lights off,” he rasps, and blessedly, mercifully, they go dark.

What the hell is he even doing?

Damn if he knows anymore. Lorca’s not too hungover to not remember what he said last night. Nor has his heart frozen over completely enough that he doesn’t feel the weight of his confession—words he carried, but never spoke, feelings buried so deeply they’ve become festering sores, and they burst last night, revealing to Michael the man he really is. He wonders what she thinks of him now.

_She probably thinks I’m him, again._

It’s not what she thinks.

Michael glances at Saru and he nods at her, granting permission. She moves off quietly and waits until Saru unlocks the doors from his station. They open and she dips in, and when they close again, it’s dark.

“Captain?”

“Specialist.”

His voice is different. Dark.

“Sir…”

“Don’t call me sir, Michael.” A rueful laugh.

“I think by now, that’s probably the last thing you should call me. Pretty sure there’s other words you can choose from.”

Just by the mood, she knows now isn’t the time. Nor the place, so she decides to let him alone. For the moment.

“Very well. I was just coming to check on you.”

“How kind.” Barbed tip.

She doesn’t take the bait and just leaves.

When she comes out, Saru looks at her with a “well?” expression. Michael shakes her head and goes back to her station. Eventually, the shift passes and they take their leave. Lorca is the last to go—slipping out during the shift change, and making his way to his quarters. The doors open into darkness and he goes through.

Another solution to a hangover? More of what caused it in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title Inspired By Otis Redding's "Come To Me"


	27. How Does It Feel/Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the last of the walls comes crumbling down, and our heroes reach equilibrium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blame D'Angelo.

 

 **Drunk (In Love)** Beyonce or **Untitled (How Does It Feel?)** D’Angelo

She stands at the closed door debating whether to stay or go. Wondering if it will still heed her command, or if he’s changed it, and locked her out.

 A press of her hand.

The doors open and she steps through. The smell strikes her immediately—like a bar. Liquor, and she spots him on the couch, shoulders slumped, head down.

“Gabriel.”

He told her not to call him Captain. She won’t. Not here, not now.

“I need to change that.”

“You’ve had months.”

Lorca sits back and eyes her, and she sees they’re still very much glassy, but the closer she gets to him, the sharper they become. 

“So I have.” He glances around, the room, assessing? She wonders.

Eventually, his eyes come back to her. She’s standing in front of him.

“You said you were afraid of loving him,” Lorca drawls, the liquor slowing him, making his southern come out a lot stronger. The accent far thicker than it’s been. She’s not sure what to make of it at the moment. But the air around them has changed.

“Yes.”

A slow nod. His eyes travel slowly down her body, then back up. She does the same to him—two equally matched.

“And I said I was afraid of loving her.”

Even inebriated, Lorca doesn’t hold back.

 That feeling again. The tingle in her skin. Between her legs. She feels her body flush with heat. Arousal. 

He’s not _that_ drunk. Something has switched between them, again. Same as before.

He stands up, looking down at her, forcing her to look up at him.

“I’m not him,” he tells her, daring her to deny it. He’s not going to stand here and pretend it’s okay, water under the bridge. They did the same thing. He admitted his, and he wants her to say hers, too. So she does, in the same way.

“I know. And I’m not her.”

Because last time they did this, it was mutually assured destruction. Too much damage. Too much baggage.

“No,” Lorca says, taking her chin in his fingers, staring into those soft, perceptive eyes.

The touch itself is fleeting, dimmed by layers of fabric, but she pulls the zipper of his jacket down. And he lets her slide her hands up his chest, under the panels, and over his shoulders. The jacket falls to the ground.

He lets her push him back, and down on the couch before she takes off her jacket too. Then her shoes. And her pants. Shirt.

She watches him, the entire time. Noting how his eyes change, the blue becomes darker. Stormier, as more layers come off.

Bra.

Panties.

He doesn’t move as she steps out of those and comes to straddle his lap, running her hands down, gripping the bottom of the t-shirt and pulling it up, over his head, and off.

She leans into him, her skin hot, her breasts firm, the nipples hard, excited.

Michael tastes the liquor in his mouth. He doesn’t respond and for a moment, she hesitates. Wondering if she’s mistaken, if…

His tongue slips across her bottom lip, traces the outline of her mouth, before sliding in. Large hands come to either side of her hips, and Lorca pulls her down as he pushes up, letting her feel him.

“What do you want, Michael?” He asks, kissing her mouth again, before trailing his tongue down the side of her neck, nibbling at her shoulder, squeezing her hips, pressing against her, more.

And when she looks at him, it’s with certainty, her voice throaty, husky, naked just as she is.

“You.”

All he has wanted to hear.

Lorca slides them to the edge of the couch and stands, holding her. Reflexively, her legs wrap around his waist, her arms, his neck, as he carries her to the bed, and sits her down gently on it before straightening up, and taking off his pants.

“Lay back,” he says, kneeling down in front of her, and using his arms to spread her legs, pulling her to the edge.

It’s a command. Not a request, and she does, closing her eyes, shivering in anticipation. Of what, she’s unsure, until she feels where his mouth his. The inside of her thigh.

“Oh…”

An arm slips around her waist, pinning her in position. He feels the tremble of her thighs. Can see clearly the extent of her arousal. He uses his free hand to touch her here, admiring the shape of it, the colour—how the brown melts into a soft pink. Neatly trimmed, not shaved… he gets closer, sliding his fingers down the soft folds, stroking gently, her clit peeking through each time he makes a pass. She’s wet already, he can see it. An inhale.

She smells like a woman and his mouth starts to water a bit until he hears the first moan from her, and gives in to the desire to taste her, lowering his head and pulling her down to his mouth, slipping his tongue between her lips and following the path, down…to her opening and back up, to her clit.

One hand arm stays at her waist, holding her close, the other wraps around himself, as he begins to stroke.

On the bed, Michael shudders, pushing on his shoulders, tangled in his hair…a combination of wanting more but afraid of it at the same time. Her hips jerk at the feel of his tongue again.

“I’m not stopping.”

The words muffled, but she understands and gradually, gives in, her body moving with him, her hips starting a slow grind against his face.

Between her legs, he smiles at her urgency, and matches her rhythm, encircling her clit and sucking on it, causing her to cry out and try to jerk back. He pulls her down again, going lower, to slip inside her, to make love to her with his mouth.

He doesn’t know what really happened with Gabriel. Doesn’t really know what really happened with Ash. But he strongly doubts, by the way she shakes and the feel of her hands, they did anything like this. Probably nowhere near this, because she’s soaked by now and on the verge of coming and he’s willing to bet, as he strokes himself in tandem to her movements, that she’s nowhere near ready for what he’s about to do.

He brings them both to the edge, and just as she feels the pressure swell in her lower belly, he stops and stands.

“Turn around.”

She blinks, in a pleasure induced delirium, confused as to what’s happening.

“Turn around.”

“What…”

He licks his lips, watching her try to figure it out. There’s no figuring it out as he lays down over her, and gently, starting with her shoulder, turns her over on her stomach. He’s nowhere near done.

Every place on her skin his mouth goes is like a mini-flame and he works his way down from the back of her neck, to the base of her spine, leaving a trail of kisses before lazily making his way back up, licking her, but when he does the same on the way back…

Michael’s eyes shoot open as she feels him part her legs and she moans loudly and tries to block when she feels where his tongue is going….and…where it is, before he slides it inside of her vagina again, and repeats.

This time she tries to reach back and stop him before he can…

 _“_ ooohhh”…. Her body has other things in mind, the warmth spreading across her lower belly, pooling there…desire overrides sense.

“You’re beautiful,” his breath tickles her ear, his mouth on her neck again.

“Spread for me.”

She does, wanting him deep inside her so badly at the moment that she arches back feeling him position himself between her legs. He lets her guide him in, the tip slipping between her wet folds, as he presses his body against hers, knocking at the door.

The first entry is shallow, and he pulls out again, making her whimper, with want.

“Tell me.”

He needs her to say it. Direct them. Direct him. No mistakes. No misunderstandings this time. This time, it’s not a fantasy. This time, they’re not using each other.

“Gabriel, please…”

It’s the way she says his name. And he lowers his body along her back, his mouth against her shoulder, wrapping an arm around her waist as he rolls them over, to the side, and lifts one of her legs, allowing it to lace around his as he pushes against her again, slipping first between the lips, and then, inside, and he hisses as her walls clench around him.

“Oh, Michael,” he groans in her ear, setting the pace, slow, almost torturously slow, a hand sliding between her legs to finger her, too.

“More.”

Her command this time, naked desire carried on a whispered word. So he obeys, giving her more. And more. Because she is demanding it of him.

He gives her all the things he’s been holding back, from himself, from others, even from Katrina. Their pace picks up, making her scream when he goes too deep. Making her whimper when he pulls back, making her moan when it’s just right, like it is now, as they move together, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, bodies locked, hot, sweaty. Wet.

Until she’s calling his name over and over, and it starts to sound like some kind of meditation… and this time, he’s the one to break first, thrusting hard and fast into her, forcing the sounds from her mouth until she screams his name and he comes with a final push, settling himself deep inside her, whispering her name as if it were a prayer for salvation as he comes…

She can feel him pulsing inside, her walls squeezing, tightening their hold, and he groans, his fingers curling against her belly.

She turns her head to meet him in a soft kiss.

They kiss until his body relaxes, and hers too, as he slips out of her pulling her close, sensations still too dissonant for either to notice the increased wetness between her legs, between them, on the sheets. It blends in with the rest of the mess they’ve made.

They kiss their way down from the high of lovemaking, hearts beating rapidly, then gradually slowing.

Eventually, their breathing returns to something akin to normal.

Eventually, they fall asleep.

.

.

**Morning After**

She’s first to wake. But it feels so different this time. And when she turns, his arm pulls her close to his body, and he murmurs her name.

Michael smiles and kisses his chin, his shoulder, his chest, the places she can get to from this position, and lays down for a moment more until her body calls her attention to an urgent matter. The bathroom.

Gently, she unwraps herself from his embrace and goes to relieve herself.

Last night still lingers between her legs. When she’s finished she goes to the sink to wash her hands. The lights are on but set to low and she pauses a moment to stare at the reflection in the mirror.

Eyes that look like hers stare back and she stands, taking stock of the person in the mirror. Her skin is red in the places his lips were. And her sex clenches as last night slips to the fore.

She waits to feel something—the guilt that usually comes, the shame…but there’s none of it. Not this time. This time she feels…content.

Satisfied in a way that she’s never been, and…hungry.

But not for food. Slender fingers slide down and between her legs, and she bites her lip to tamp down on a moan.

He wakes to find the space next to him warm, but empty, and Lorca’s first feeling is a sinking pit in his stomach.

 Did he do it, again? Did he ruin it for them, this time?

 But the sound of water from the bathroom catches his attention. And the despair is replaced with relief.

She’s still here. She hasn’t left.

He gets up, walking toward the sound when the water stops. And he enters, right as he sees Michael, standing there, looking at herself in the mirror. She can’t see him, but he can see her, and he takes the time to admire her slender shoulders, the lovely curve of her body and the shape of her spine, her ass, her legs.

It’s starting again.

The flames, licking at the edges, and when he sees her eyes slip close, and her fingers go between her legs, he knows her want is equally as urgent as his.

When she opens her eyes, he’s there, behind her.

Strong arms wrap around her as he presses against her, letting her feel all of him.

And she wants all of him.

Their bodies need no more instructions.

And the glass wall of the shower becomes the bracing point as she stands on her tip toes to give him entry.

The first thrust releases a bolt of sensation throughout her body so intense it makes her start to shake and he doesn’t even bother trying to tamp down on his own pleasure as they sex against the shower. And when Michael comes again, and she cries out—more like a hoarse scream—her throat still raw from last night. And he follows, grunting in her ear.

They slip to the floor, and she scoots into the crook of his arm, one leg, draped over his.

He places a languid kiss on her forehead.

And they rest a moment, to catch their breaths. It’s still early. 0600 hours. Another two before either have to report to the bridge.


	28. Sneaking Suspicions

**_Sneaking Suspicions_ **

She’s in her makeshift ready-room examining the map when Lieutenant Tyler enters.

“What is it?” Admiral Cornwell asks, looking up at him. He’s proven to be a good asset aboard her floating office—a smart officer, a good tactician and his expertise in Klingon culture has done wonders in helping move the lines on the battlefront. Still, he’s largely remained relegated to the communications array with other officers, listening and interpreting and translating. While his work has been exemplary, she still doesn’t trust him to do it alone. Katrina is under no pretence about who, or rather what, she is dealing with. There are two people inside one body - one loyal to the Federation, one loyal to the Klingon Empire. She does not believe he would willfully compromise them, yet she knows that at any moment, his Klingon side could re-emerge. It did with Specialist Michael Burnham in the alternate universe, and it also did with Doctor Culber. Burnham survived. Culber did not. And Katrina is unwilling to become another of Tyler-Voq’s casualties.

 “I’ve been listening in on some communications,” he starts, coming over to her with a file. “I think something has happened with the Discovery.”

The Discovery. Katrina’s stomach twists and she moves aside to make room for Tyler to access the viewer. He pulls up a list of transcribed transmissions and begins relaying them to her.

“It’s scattered. There was some sort of an attack.”

“On the ship?”

“No.”

He keys in something and the markers jump between words. “Look here,” he points. She leans in to scan.

“Attack. Federation. “Violation. Klingon space.”

“The _Federation_ attacked in Klingon space? The Federation DOES NOT attack in Klingon space!”

Tyler nods. “That’s what it looks like. And there’s only one ship that’s capable of striking that deep and getting out just as fast.”

“Discovery.” Katrina shakes her head, lips tight, arms crossed. “What the fuck were they thinking?” She mutters to herself, fuming.

“Has any of this reached the other admirals?”

The Lieutenant shakes his head. “No, sir. I brought it to you first, considering…who all is involved.”

“Good call,” she tells him. “Transmit the daily reports, but not this. I’ll handle this one personally.”

Because while she did give Lorca wide latitude, THIS—attacking inside Klingon space—is a violation of treaty and rule, not to mention risky as all hell and who knows what condition the ship is in? And it’s lucky they made it back—what if the tech had been found?

Most of all though, she’s disappointed. The Lorca she knows would never put his crew directly in harm’s way if he could help it, and the front has been changing as Discovery has rallied to shore up the Federation’s defence outposts, so why the attack?

 _Wholly unnecessary,_ Katrina thinks to herself, turning off the viewer and leaving her ready room.

It’s raised more questions than answers, and she wants them. And she will get them. If for some reason Discovery and its Captain have gone completely rogue, she’s fully prepared to take him down.

And she’s got questions for Specialist Burnham too—she left Michael there for a purpose—to keep Lorca in line.

“Helm,” she commands, sitting into the centre chair.

“Set coordinates for…” she gives the classified location of Discovery.

.

.

Six days out from the battle, and repairs are proceeding well. “We’re up to 75 percent capacity,” Saru tells Captain Lorca, handing him a PADD with burndown charts attached for the work. “And only one person remains in sickbay.”

Lorca nods, making note that he needs to stop by and check in with the officer that remains with the doctors. “Good job, Commander,” he tells the Kelpian, even granting him a smile. The smile is what catches Saru off guard a moment—he’s never seen Lorca actually crack a smile.

“Thank you, sir.” He says, slightly bewildered. The Captain has been in a far better mood these past few days. The doors to the bridge open a few moments later, revealing Burnham.

“Greetings, Commander,” she greets Saru, before taking her station.

“Specialist,” he says, noting she looks…the same.

No. Not quite, but he can’t put his finger on what’s different about her. Externally, she has not changed. Just as efficient as always. Michael completes her duties for the day and leaves. But for the past few…maybe it is his imagination.

The bridge is quiet as the officers work on separate assignments. Saru and Lorca examine status reports, Burnham checks in on the progress of various science projects underway, Lieutenant Bryce monitors fleet traffic and Lieutenants Owosekun and Detmer carefully navigate the ship. For the moment, all is silent.

After a while, Lorca does his usual rotations, stopping at each station and getting an update. When he gets to Burnham, he leans down close. They don’t speak. Yet Captain Lorca stands a little _too_ close, chest brushing against Michael’s back. He leans down a bit _too_ far, until they’re almost cheek-to cheek. Michael exhales just a little _too_ long. She turns her head toward Lorca just a little bit. And he brushes her hand gently before moving on. Small movements. Nearly imperceptible. Unseen by most.

Saru catches it.

When Michael looks up and catches him watching her, she quickly glances away—eyes down, focused on the console in front of her, the data on the screen. But now Saru thinks he knows what’s changed an he is deeply disturbed. It is conduct unbecoming of an officer. Or, officers. And he does not believe a Captain Lorca who is well-versed in Starfleet protocol would dare such a thing…not with a subordinate—not with a criminal.

There is only one explanation—he is sure. And immediately, as it comes to him, he feels the stretch of the skin on his head, the tell-tell sign. He feels the rush of endorphins through his body, a reaction bred through generations of his people fleeing for their lives.

There is danger near. And it is close.

Another furtive look to the Captain, now seated in his chair reading reports. Then to Michael, buried in her console screen.

It is not right. There must be something wrong.

He moves a hand to his head and urges his threat ganglia back in place. He will speak with Michael immediately.  It is his duty as first officer. It is his duty as a friend.

.

.

“It has come to my attention that the nature of your relationship with Captain Lorca has…changed.”

They are seated in the mess. Rather he found her seated in the mess eating quietly, and joined her. In the past, Saru never would have brought up such matters. But that was then. Since he has served as acting captain, captain, XO and carried all the additional responsibilities, it has granted him a far broader perspective than he had before. He is now channelling that here.

“Relationships among and between people are constantly changing,” Michael replies, steadily focused on the meal in front of her, giving nothing.

“Yes, yes. And change is the universal constant,” a wave dismisses the last comment. “Be that as it may, I perceive that _your_ relationship in particular with this universe’s Gabriel Lorca is of a more personal nature than what existed between you and his alternate. And I am concerned.”

They speak low in a table by the window. The din of the room disguises their conversation.

“Saru,” Michael finally puts down her fork and looks at him. “Has this Gabriel Lorca given you any reason to be concerned?”

“I personally, have found him to be too similar to that other Lorca,” Saru tells her, to her surprise.

“I was under the impression that you liked him.”

“Whether I like him is irrelevant. He is the captain. Put in place by Admiral Cornwell. I have no choice but to follow orders.”

“But you didn’t when we were over _there_ ,” she challenges referring to the other universe.

“ _He_ left us no choice,” Saru defends. “Gabriel Lorca gave up command when he revealed himself.”

“And you believe he has somehow, returned here. Saru, I WATCHED him die.”

The last part is said with a flicker of something akin to emotion from Michael, and the First Officer is slightly taken aback by it. A few eyes drift their way, ears having been pricked by the slightly increased volume, but the gist of the conversation lost on them.

The specialist and XO fall silent, contemplating each other.

“I trust him, Saru.”

“You trusted the other him, too.”


	29. I’ll You Mine, If You Tell Me Yours

**I’ll You Mine, If You Tell Me Yours**

“Tell me what happened over there.”

Lorca glances up, surprised to see her so early. Their shift has just ended. He’s just reached his quarters, just taken off his boots when the door opens and she enters without invitation. Well, she does have a standing one. But still…so abrupt.

He sighs, knowing eventually she would want to know. Eventually, they would have to discuss it. Eventually, he would have to tell his. But, “I won’t apologize.”

The words send a chill down her back, but Michael steadies herself as her lover goes to the liquor cabinet.

“No.” She says, the word stopping him before he has a chance to reach for a bottle. The liquor is how he copes, she has figured out by now. And she refuses to have him inebriated, drunk, as he’s been before. He will give it to her straight. He owes her this, at least.

Suddenly, he’s tired. But Michael stands there, unrelenting.

“I want to know,” she says. “Tell me the truth.”

The truth.

“Do you know what agonizers are, Michael? Did you see them, when you were there?”

Her stomach lurches, as he unzips his jacket.

“How about what about how it feels to be stabbed in the back, literally?”

His shirt comes off.

“Turns out I had enemies on both sides. The empire wanted me dead, so did the rebels. When I got over there, the ship was already breaking up. I didn’t know who those people were, faces that looked familiar but weren’t. I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew something was wrong. We took shuttles. Some got blown up. Some got caught. Mine managed to make it to the surface. That’s where the real fun began.”

The surface was where rebel forces awaited him as he climbed out the wreckage that was his shuttle, bleeding and coughing, staggering on his feet. He and his companion were surrounded immediately by hostile forces. The man had been shot. Lorca had been taken, locked in a cell the first few days, dragged out and beaten on the third and fourth. Interrogation—demands for information on empirical positions. They knew his name. But he couldn’t seem to convince them that he wasn’t who they thought he was.

“First they tried to beat me,” he says. But he grew up fighting, to his parents’ chagrin, and he carried that fight to Starfleet—specializing in security and intelligence. He’d been through torture training and covert ops, endured more and lesser men had long dropped before he ever did.

“General Lorca,” an Andorian sneered down at him, “your bitch is dead.”

He thought they meant Katrina. It was the one time he felt broken. But then, they showed him a picture.

“Your face,” he says, “Eyes open, bloodied, looking at the sky.”

_I don’t know who the fuck that is._

The sneer and vitriol behind the words is what finally made them stop.

He was dragged back to a cell, thrown in. By now, Starfleet blues were filthy—blood and bile and…other things, all over.

“Do you know one of the best ways to torture a person?” He asks Michael, as she watches him quietly. “Make them feel unclean.”

Next came the agonizers.

“That’s when I shit myself.” A dark, haunted laugh.

“They do it in bouts at a time. Make you feel safe. Shoot you again. Off and on, to the brink of death, then to recovery, then back to the brink.”

Delirium—he’d thought about Kat. Thought about their home in Tahoe, thought about the baby they didn’t get to have. Forced his physical predicament down and let the memory of her smile, her face, her laugh and their love wash over him. He stopped paying attention to his captors. Eventually, he’d die and they’d be left without a damn thing.

_Until one day, he saw Sarek._

“Let me tell you,” he says. “Vulcan pacifism is a fucking lie.” Because Sarek tore his mind inside out until he realized he wasn’t dealing with the Gabriel Lorca of this universe, and finally convinced the rebels they had the wrong Lorca.

Not all were ready to play nice, though.

The first night out of the cell, with clean clothes, he felt the knife go through his side.

Emergency surgery. Later, he saw the same Andorian who’d sneered at him, now held in the cage he had been in. “You killed my wife,” the male told him. “My daughter.”

He couldn’t say he didn’t do it, knowing very well a version of him had.

He learned the stories fast. General Lorca. Emperor Georgiou’s Angel of Death. Her daughter, Michael, consumer of worlds. Together, they became the sword of Georgiou. Feared and despised for their cruelty. There were other stories too, other versions. Michael and Gabriel were almost mythical here.

_My how the mighty have fallen._

Lorca was angry, but couldn’t show it. Resentful, but couldn’t express it. So he accepted this new fate. And did what he had to do.

Neither side was any better, he thought as they made their way into a Terran outpost. He’d watched dully as whole families were murdered—mothers, fathers, children. And over time, he lost himself, too—kill, or be killed, in this world. He was a survivor. So he killed. Starting with the Andorian who’d stabbed him. And felt no remorse.

He points to places as he talks. His chest. Back.

“I wish they would have let me keep this one,” he drags a finger across the lower right side of his abdomen, a callous, hard chuckle. “It was impressive.”

The physical scars are gone—dermal regeneration when he was unconscious in Sick Bay. Yet emotional and psychological scars remain.

“I HATED Gabriel,” he tells her. “I hated you. I hated them, the whole fucking thing.”

It makes her heart hurt to hear him speak of despair in a way that sounds so detached. Like he’s speaking about someone else. What he needs, she is beginning to understand, is more than what she may be able to give him. But she knows no other way of going about repairing what’s broken. And this Gabriel Lorca is still very much in pieces.

Michael goes to him and wraps her arms around his waist, and lays her head on his chest. it seems to bring him back to the present, and he looks down at the top of her head, seemingly amazed she is still here, even more so that she’s still willing to touch him. Carefully, as if she may disintegrate, he wraps his arms around her shoulders and buries his face in her hair.

.

.

“Explain.”

The only word he utters. They’re together, she’s tucked into the crook of his arm, a hand on his chest, moulded to the side of his body. Lorca’s eyes are closed. Hers too. But neither is asleep, just quiet. Michael has been ruminating on what he’s told her. He’s been silent and mentally exhausted but not too tired to ask now.

Tell you mine, if you tell me yours.

“I loved him and didn’t know it. Couldn’t face the truth of it. So I denied it,” she says quietly. “I denied it until I couldn’t.”

_He seduced you too…even now the Emperor’s words curl like smoke in her mind._

“Maybe I was seduced,” she says slowly. “They tortured him, too. But he wouldn’t let me help him.” _As if he had something to atone for. Willing to accept this punishment. She realizes it was likely a combination of self-punishment fueled by guilt, and raw determination to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his._

She told me that they raised me,” Michael says, and for the first time, Lorca’s eyes open, and cast to the side at her. But she’s not looking at him, just down. “She said he was my father figure until I got older” _… And it became something more._

Reflexively, Lorca begins to feel his skin crawl at the insinuation. Growing more uncomfortable with where she’s heading.

“We were lovers,” Michael says. “Georgiou told me he groomed me. I couldn’t look at him the same after that. I was so angry. I felt betrayed. Disgusted even. We fought. I didn’t kill him, but…”

 _She remembers the look of hurt on his face, the way the sword stuck out of his chest—as if he couldn’t believe his own death. He’d reached out to her in those final moments, eyes pleading and…_ “I moved away. I couldn’t let him touch me.”

_And he’d fallen into the abyss. In his dying moments he’d reached out to her and she’d denied him any sort of basic human comfort. She let him go. Alone, remembering what the logs said. That he was wanted for the murder of the other her. And that, coupled with Georgiou’s words, and his months of lies had done them in._

“You didn’t kill him,” Lorca tries to reassure her. But it doesn’t work.

“Then why does it feel like I did?”

 She buries her face in his side.

_Groomed her. He wants to recoil at the words. The implications. But he knows that’s something a Lorca would NEVER do. There are bounds. And that—is completely out of them. He is many things. But even the devil has limits. And Gabriel knows himself too well—both iterations--to believe that to be right. He thinks back to the message the other him left her…and realizes that this is the reason why. Gabriel must have figured in advance that if his plan worked, Georgiou would try to turn this Michael against him. And he’d wanted her to know—to have the other side—so that she wouldn’t think him a monster, wouldn’t still carry guilt about her feelings for him. He’d wanted her to know…_

“I need to show you something,” Lorca tells Michael, getting up and getting a PADD, before coming back. She’s sitting up now, perched on the side of his bed, hands in lap watching, as he enters commands.

The screen comes on.

“This is for you,” he tells her, “Gabriel wanted you to see this.”

He hands her the PADD, and goes to the vestibule, leaving her alone with it. Maybe she will hate him now for withholding this. And if she does, he can’t blame her. He’s had a front-row seat to everything she thought was private, sacred.

Michael had denied him the first drink, but now he gets it, needing it to take the edge of his frayed nerves. Their nights are long, filled with painful things, and he doesn’t know how she will react once she realizes he knew before she ever said a word.

The bourbon and wines are gone. He has switched to whisky. Just a cup.

The words reach his ears as he sits on the couch, waiting.

_._

_._

_“Hello, Michael. If you’re seeing this, I’m dead.”_

Her fingers touch the outline of Gabriel’s face on the monitor.

Is that regret she hears in his voice? The face is set, but his eyes, Lorca’s eyes, Gabriel’s eyes, they’re sad. 

“I should have told you the truth,” he says. “But would you have believed me? I know you don’t believe in fate, but I do. And I still believe it was fate that brought me here, to you.”

Gabriel’s shoulders slump slightly, and she watches as he pauses, thinking deeply.

“The files we recovered,” he says, speaking slowly, voice becoming lower. Thicker. “They say you died, and I’m wanted for your murder.”  She remembers reading it.

 “I didn’t kill you, Michael,” Gabriel whispers. “You may not believe anything I say, but I didn’t kill you. I loved you. And I had to watch you die.”

_He watched her…die? He was there? He knew?_

“If you see this, and you’re still here, in my universe, I know you’ll want to trust Emperor Georgiou. Don’t.” It’s said forcefully.  His hands fists. “Do _not_ trust a word she says. Don’t believe what she tells you about me,” he continues. “It was by her order you were killed. She sent you after me and used you as a beacon. You were followed. And she knew—about us. And she also knew…”Again, he hangs his head.

 “She took everything from me,” he says, “because I dared to defy her rule. And I watched you die, and when you died, our baby did too. You were pregnant, Michael. Georgiou knew. And she still did it anyway.”

The PADD clatters to the floor. Michael just stares at it, blankly. Trying to process what she’s just heard. What he said. That she was…that they were…

He hears the clang and gets up, entering the bedroom to see her sitting there, frozen in the spot.

Slowly, she raises her face to his.

“Did you…know?” Her voice is choked. Full. Lorca swallows, tasting the whisky at the back of his throat. He knows what she’s asking about. The last thing Gabriel said. The other thing. Two men in different universes with the exact same regret.

“Yes.”

He won’t lie to her.

Michael weighs her next question carefully, trying to decide how much else she wants to know. Eventually, she settles on it.

“Is there more?”

Lorca cringes at the question. She catches it. But she must know. Everything. Every word.

“Yes.”

“Have you…seen them, all?”

“Not all,” he tells her. “But most.”

 He picks up the PADD and unlocks it, giving it the commands and handing it back to her, leaving the room again.

This time, she doesn’t drop it.

Sometimes, Gabriel makes her want to scream at him. In other entries, he makes her want to cry. When she realizes he recorded their lovemaking she blanches—realizing why Lorca kept asking her whether they were intimate. But the entry that breaks her heart, is when Gabriel begins to talk about Ash.

“I think you’re falling in love,” he says, glancing at the screen then away. “Had I known this would happen I would have left his ass on that Klingon prison transport.” Dry. Humourless. He’s dead serious.

“No. I love you too much for that,” Gabriel says. “Do you even know what love is? I don’t know if you—this version of you—has ever been in love before.”

She hadn’t. She didn’t. What he’s talking about now, it feels like a lifetime ago. When she was still naïve. A woman in body but still very much a girl, in other ways.

“Is it because you’re afraid of me?” He asks. “Did I do something wrong for you to go to him, instead? Was it because of what…we did? I shouldn’t have done that. I knew better. Maybe, you and him—maybe this is all my fault.”

Gabriel sits back in his chair, runs his hand over his face, one arm across his chest.

“What kind of man would I be to interfere with your love?” he says slowly. “If it makes you happy, Michael. If he’s what you really want, then I have no choice. But I don’t believe you do want him. And I will wait for you,” he tells her. “For as long as it takes. I’ll wait. Because I lost you once. And I would rather die before I lose you again.”

He did die.

Lorca doesn’t hear anything after Gabriel’s muffled voice finishes.

So he goes into the room and sees her, laying down, eyes closed.

“Lay with me,” she says, a question not a command. He does and she curls up and brings one of his arms around her waist.

“You’ve been drinking.”

He has, won’t deny that, either.

“They’ll find me another liver,” he tells her, fingers touching her belly, unconsciously rubbing her, there.

She wonders if he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

 Oh, the tangled webs of the universe.

A cruel joke? Nature’s humour?

They spoke of nature versus nurture once. Is it their nature to be together? Or just a strange twist of circumstance? Gabriel believed in fate. Michael hadn’t before. Now, she’s not sure what she believes.

Individually, they could never have healed themselves. But they’re slowly stitching each other back together.


	30. I'd Rather Go Blind (Tyler II, Lorca II)

**I’d Rather Go Blind**

“Admiral,” Lorca greets her as he comes on the bridge. “This is…unexpected.”

Katrina eyes him up and down, critically. Uniform immaculate as always. His hair slightly mussed, as if he were sleeping, but when he gets close, she catches a whiff and frowns, knowing that smell. She’s known Gabriel too long to be fooled. His default when shit goes awry, when he’s stressed to the point where he can’t deal. And she senses something else too—the way he’s standing, slightly back from her, guarded, and…she gets to his face, noting the blue in his eyes, the slightly withdrawn look: he’s hiding something.

“Conference room, Captain.”

Tell. Don’t ask.

They go, leaving Tyler with Saru.

Once the doors shut, she turns on him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Katrina snaps. “Attacking in Klingon space. Are you crazy? We could have lost this ship and her tech!”

“But we didn’t lose the ship or the tech,” Lorca says measuredly, not wanting to antagonize her further. “We came back. Got the job done.”

“And WHAT, exactly, was the job? The impetus? We were moving the needle.”

“It wasn’t moving fast enough,” he defends.

“Shut up right there.”

Lorca massages his temple, feeling his patience beginning to wear thin—he’s annoyed that she’s talking to him like this, but he’s letting her—knowing her anger is probably due to a hell of a lot more than just a mission she disagreed with. Katrina charges on.

“YOU jeopardized this ship. This crew. All for what? Your ego? Your glory?”

“It’s NOT my ego!” He finally snaps, venting the extent of pent-up frustration. “ _Your_ people screwed up. Had Terral listened to Michael we wouldn’t _be_ in this situation in the first place. YOU, Admiral, punish her for violating ‘Starfleet directives’, THEN you’re fucking surprised we’re getting our asses kicked halfway to Sunday!

“ _Who_ decided to only defend the colonies and leave the arrays undefended? _Who_ decided to de-militarize the Federation? Hell, I get it. Peace in the fucking galaxy, but WHEN will you guys wake up and accept SOME responsibility for this? YOU and your ilk, Katrina—the old guard is gone. This is YOUR fault. Accept it. I jumped into Klingon space to send a message—that the Federation ISN’T passive. That it WILL do more than just defend itself. That it’s just as willing as they are to fight—and from what I’m seeing—it’s working. Hell, you won’t even tell the others what we’re doing—so which one of us is being the coward-- me, or you?”

Only after Lorca’s done does the rest slowly sink in.

“You’re accusing me,” she starts slowly, “of allowing the invasion? Do you KNOW how you sound right now? We’ve lost tens of thousands of people, Gabriel. And you’re saying it’s _wrong_ to want for peace—what do you propose? Constant war? Humanity tried that for centuries, and I know you know history.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Katrina.”

Lorca sits back down, realizing he’s been standing the past few minutes ranting.

“It doesn’t matter, now. What matters is getting you to see why we did what we did. Why Michael and I made the decision to go on offence. Can you at least admit it’s got them nervous? I know you get the transmission logs.”

She does. And she has seen, through Tyler, the amount of confusion the strike has caused among Klingon forces. But still…

“There are _rules_ , Gabriel.”

“Rules are for admirals in back offices,” he retorts.

“Pick that up from over there?” She snaps back, eyes narrow, standing now and circling him. “You haven’t been the same since you came back. You sound like _him_.”

Like him.

“Then maybe he was right about a few things,” Lorca tells her, to Kat’s surprise. A shudder runs through her.

“What did you lose over there, Gabriel? What happened to your humanity?”

But he won’t answer. Instead, “Are we done, Admiral?”

“No, we’re not. How many crew did you lose?”

Thanks to Saru, she’s seen the reports about the boarding.

“Five.”

“Were their lives worth it?”

“To end a war? You said yourself, tens of thousands have died already. My people died with dignity. Honour. Trying to save the Federation. That’s all I’m doing. Trying to save us. Because we’re fighting an enemy that doesn’t play by the rules, Katrina. And I think you know that. And I also think you know,” he leans closer now, “that we will lose our way of life if we don’t come up with a better way.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t bust you down and send Burnham to the nearest prison colony?” She refuses the bait.

But at the word ‘Burnham’, there’s something different in Gabriel’s face. It disappears just as quickly—but it sure as hell looked like…panic?

“You wouldn’t.” He tells her. “We’re your best for bringing this thing to an end. You hate what we’re doing, but condoning it. And you left Michael here for a reason.”

Katrina catches it once more. Not Specialist. Not Burnham. _Michael._  The collective, “we”.

Another glance at Gabriel. He’s giving her the blank stare of indifference, but his shoulders are tense. Still as a statue. She knows his bluffs. His hedges. His ticks and his quirks. Katrina eyes him critically, takes a longer look at the man she used to love…still loves…

It comes out of nowhere. Like a shock to her system. She doesn’t know what prompts it. What makes her say it. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s worry. Some unresolved something from deep down that rears up in the moment. But the words that escape, she can’t take back, and the truth reveals itself in the look on his face when she asks, point-blank…  

“Are you sleeping with her?”

.

.

**Tyler II**

It’s early, but he wants to see her. To show her that he’s…better now. That in these months apart, he’s found something to hold on too, that he’s not the person that attacked her and that he’s worked hard to be better. For her.

Tyler retraces the familiar path toward the quarters Michael shares with Tilly, feeling anxious, but wanting to resolve this. Resolve them, convince her he’s changed, learned. That he’s a better man, can be a better man. For her.

The chime of the call is faint, inside. He waits, hoping Michael will come to the door.

“Tilly?”

“Ash?”

She rubs her eyes sleepily and blinks a few times, puzzled at his appearance, a mess of red curls adorning her head. Tilly’s hair has always been impressive, wild, nearly un-tamable and she’s complained of it more than a few times—but the hair is part of her, its own character and personality separate and apart from its owner.

“What are you doing here? It’s…” she glances behind her and back at him.

“0527?”

“Yeah. I came in with Admiral Cornwell.”

Tilly nods, becoming more awake as they talk. She’s not moved from the doorway, and he casts a few looks over her head, trying to peek inside. Tilly catches it.

“So…what brings you…here?” She asks, knowing but trying to stall.

Michael rarely sleeps in their room anymore. And she hasn’t been here in…weeks really. But Ash doesn’t know that. And she doesn’t want to be the one to have to say it.

“Is Michael here?”

 “Um…no, I think, she…uh…maybe left a little earlier?”

Sylvia isn’t a good liar. It’s in the way her eyes dart away nervously. The chewing of her lip. The shifting of the feet. It’s so… _human_ , he thinks snidely, but stops, realizing those are Voq’s thoughts, not his.

“You’re lying,” Ash says drily. “Where is she, Tilly?”

“Um….engineering?”

“At 0530 in the morning?”

“You know she likes to get an early start, sometimes.”

Sylvia tries for a smile, but Ash doesn’t buy it.

“You don’t have to lie, Tilly. It’s okay. It’s what I get for stopping by, unannounced.” He leaves, and the door closes, but midway down the hall, there’s a computer, and he goes there—knowing the officer badges carry location data.

“Computer, location of Michael Burnham.”

“Michael Burnham is in room 2-1-1-2.”

The number sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place it, so he takes the lift up to the level and steps off. The corridor is empty. Just a few rooms, but as soon as he starts walking and comes to the door, he stops. Seeing the name inscribed on a panel. _Lorca, G._

Captain Lorca’s quarters.

And Michael is here.

He’s mildly amused that he should be surprised at this discovery.

Still, Tyler is not a coward. He came for resolution, and resolution he is determined to get.

So he presses the chime.

.

.

The sound is soft, yet insistent, lulling her out of sleep and at first, it’s difficult to place, as she slowly wakes to find the space beside her empty.

It’s 0616.

The chime again—someone at the door and Michael is confused as to why it would be ringing.

She rises, still in uniform from the night before, and makes her way to the door.

It opens and she’s shocked. And shook, there’s no hiding it—all over her face as she freezes, seeing Ash standing there, looking at her with distrust, and hurt.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

.

.

 _Deer in headlights_ , he thinks, staring into Michael’s big brown eyes. Those were the first things he noticed about her—how wide they were, beautiful and almond shaped, with long lashes and an innocent, yet tired expression—somewhat sad, somewhat guarded. He was captivated in the moment, thought she was beautiful, even if she herself could have cared less about how she appeared to others.

It was the stiff formality that caught him and the sudden, revealing moment of weakness when she collapsed in pain on the mess hall floor, appearing injured. He thought of her as doe-like, elegant, slender limbs and something made him want to reach out and try to protect her in the moment, never thinking that in the end, she’d be the one to protect him. She’d reminded him of the animal, skittish around him at first, and he’d thought her somewhat naïve, but endearing, slightly socially awkward but attractive, admiring that she could go through so much and still maintain her decency. At least, he’d thought her decent. Thought her innocent, too.

Maybe she wasn’t always so innocent. Maybe she wasn’t so decent. Maybe it was all in his confused, trauma-induced mind. Maybe it was what he wanted to believe, needed to believe—that someone could love him when he was still struggling to reconcile images and memories he wasn’t sure were real or imagined; to find a way to love himself after losing himself to the darkness that was his former tormentor and jailor, his Klingon lover, L’Rell. If Michael became his light, L’Rell was his shadow.

Maybe this particular angel was always out of reach.

Maybe he would have done better to leave well enough alone.

Gabriel, the usurper, had warned him.

He’d ignored Gabriel.

Now, here he stands, looking at her, in the quarters of the man he’d tried to steal her from.

“So this is why you wanted me gone?” he asks. “This is why you let me go?”

“I let you go because you lied to me.” Michael’s voice is level. But her face is filled with concern.

“I don’t want your pity.”

“You don’t have it.”

“Why him?” It’s jealous.

Her steely gaze never leaves his, lips pursed into a tight line.

The non-answer is the reply, and Tyler remarks, “so you lied to me, too.”

“And to myself.”

It’s all he needs to walk away, knowing she was never his to begin with. The thought gives him pause. The sense of possession that comes with it. Again, not him. Voq. He knows well you can’t own or possess another person. But Voq feels an entirely different way. And Tyler knows then he will always be trapped in this particular form of hell. That he’s better, but not quite. That he will always struggle between two people forced into one body. And Michael is just the cusp of it.

 

 

**Lorca II**

_“Are you sleeping with her?”_

Of course, Katrina would know.

“And if I was?” he defends.

“You _know_ better.”

It comes out before he can stop himself. “So did you, when you decided to sleep with _him_.”

Neither of them have ever fought fair. They know where to poke. Where to jab. How to hurt. And there’s been plenty of it to go around of late. They’ve never stood on even, solid ground. Part of their attraction. Part of their repulsion. Lorca takes the low road.

Katrina’s pupils expand and darken. She visibly draws back, and he’s immediately ashamed of himself. “Kat, I--” he reaches out, but she slaps him. Hard. So hard, it makes his head snap to the right, and he brings a hand up to the burning, stinging side of his face. That’s going to leave a mark. Not the hand itself, but the ring on the middle finger. It’s been there for more than two decades. Promises made. Promises broken.

A welt is quickly forming on the broken skin.

“You’re what? Sorry?” She scoffs. “I’ve heard that one before.”

Oh yes, she has. Many, many times. Lorca works his mouth but nothing comes out. The words don’t form.  Because he’s not sorry for it. What he’s sorry for are all the other things. What he’s really sorry for is how he ruined them. And he’s sorry it took him more than two decades to realize that he was the poison in their relationship. But how to tell her this? How to explain it, without sounding like he’s making excuses?

“So this is what we are now,” he says, rubbing the side of his face warily, remembering that Katrina is heavy-handed. “You’re mad at me for something I didn’t do.”

It’s not about him sleeping with Michael. Lorca knows it. Katrina does too. What got him slapped is what he said. About her. About the other him.

“You hate me,” Lorca says slowly, “because I look like him.”

“And talk like him. And act like him.” Katrina finishes, slumping down into a chair, her fury beginning to wane, and tiredness starting to take over. It’s been a long war. It’s been a long two years. It’s been a long, six months. So much between them, stacked up like a monument to failure on both sides.

He takes a chair opposite, rubbing his temples.

“He tricked me,” she says so softly, he almost misses it.

Almost. But he knows to stay quiet. To listen, not talk.

“He tricked me, and I wanted so badly to believe it was you. I just couldn’t face it. So I let myself be tricked. Anything, to believe for a little longer that I hadn’t lost you when I did.”

“Eighteen months, Kat.”

They’re not looking at one another.

“Eighteen months I scraped and I fought and I killed, and I was tortured, and I tortured—anything I could do to survive—and the only thing that saved me, kept me even remotely sane,” he swallows, voice growing thicker, darker, “was making it back to you. I was trying my damnedest to get to Tahoe. And when I finally make it, you--”

Beat him. Yelled at him. Slapped him. Railed at him. Twenty-five years of fury unleashed when he least expected it, when his own body and soul were damaged nearly to the point of disrepair and he was still barely clinging to the fact that he wasn’t dreaming, that he was back, and to see her, standing there—gun drawn, ready to shoot him. And then later, when she did. Not with a phaser, but with her words. She’d killed what he thought was left of his humanity when she did that.

No tether.

No anchor.

“You left me to suffer,” he tells her. “I’ve suffered every single day for more than two years, and you act like I left on purpose. That I did this intentionally. That it’s my fault—what happened when I was gone. I never left you, Trina,” he says, using the nickname reserved between them, “but as soon as I stepped off that platform, you’d already made up your mind.”

She let him go. Let him drift.

It’s the first time they’re being completely honest with each other.

“Tahoe was a pipe dream for us,” she says quietly, remembering the night they fought over her promotion. How angry she was that he wasn’t more supportive. How angry he was that she could even consider it.

“You were never really there.”

She’s bringing back years. He can’t argue with her there. “I thought we promised to try again. We swore that to each other.”

“Maybe I never believed you could keep a promise,” she tells him. “So many of those you broke.”

Exactly what he told Michael, he did.

This was never one for him to win. He knows it. And he’ll let her have it.

“So what do you want to do with me, Katrina? Does it make you feel better to know what I’ve suffered too? Does it make you feel better to know karma actually works?” A harsh, dry laugh. “Are we finally, even now?”

He looks at her, those eyes ever sharper, the blue deeper, and in them, all she sees is grief and pain. And it cuts her.

A man too proud to beg. Too strong to be broken. Physical pain has never bothered Gabriel—she knows its emotional stuff he can’t handle. The reason why he ran. Ran until he couldn’t anymore. She knew what she had a long time ago—and if she’s real with herself, she also knows it’s not his fault. Not _all_ his fault. It takes two. Two to fight, two to love. There’s blame on her too. Because she pressured him to stay when she knew he wanted to go. Tried to force him to settle down when she knew it wasn’t his nature. And the pregnancy—a last-ditch effort when she felt she was losing him. She used his love to her advantage—but caged birds always find a way out—and that’s what he did. Neither of them were perfect, but…

“I’m sorry, ‘Trina.”

“For what?” Her breath is hitched. Almost afraid to hear what he’s going to say next. He doesn’t. Just gets up and comes to her chair to stand before her.

“For Jeremy.”

One tear. A traitor to its master, slipping from its stony prison to make an escape down her cheek. Jeremy. The name they chose for a child they wouldn’t get to see.

“I’m sorry about Anthony.” The husband she lost because Anthony knew her heart wasn’t in it. A marriage built on splintered glass. Settling for something because nothing wasn’t an option.

“And I’m sorry for Tahoe.” Their house on the edge of the lake. The retirement plan. The one promise they swore to each other they’d keep. The one destroyed by war.

“I do love you, Katrina,” Lorca tells her. “And I am so, so sorry it was never enough.”

Not then. And after everything else, not now.

“I’m sorry too.”

The voice is far softer. More resigned. Accepting. No more struggle here. No more fighting—they both see the writing on the wall.

She tells him what she knows. That she’s always known the kind of man he is.

“But…I tried,” he says, weakly.

Katrina stands to touch to the side of his face. Her fingers slide down the welt. Red, angry, a thin crimson streak of red down the middle, but it doesn’t bleed.

“I know you did. I’m glad you did.”

Because they both know it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. No matter the bad…there was always so much more good there.

A soft smile graces her face.

“I love you, Gabriel.”

“Trina.” He comes to hug her, and this time, she doesn’t flinch from his touch, just wraps her arms around him, and rests her head against his chest, feeling his warmth, drawing strength from his surety of presence. It feels like going home. Like the friends they are, even now.

 “I love you too.”

They do, and they always will. He’s in her bones, and she’s in his. Yet they’re old enough and wise enough to have finally learned the difference, between loving, and being in love.

Loving suits them just fine.


	31. Green Eyes

**Green Eyes**

Merkin in her arms.

Three lifts, down into the lower decks of the ship until she comes to a place she hasn’t been in months - Gabriel’s lab.

The doors open and she steps through. Everything is as _he_ left it, save for the dead and dissected creatures that someone has removed. The weapons and other specimens remain pristine in their cases, the metal tables shine like new.

Nothing has been touched.

But some things are missing.

The man himself.

Once again, she finds herself thinking of Gabriel as she settles onto a chair, Merkin’s gentle purring just enough to take a piece of the edge off her sorrow.

A touch of a smile, as she remembers his reaction when she told him about the tardigrade. Two eyebrows raised, arms crossed.

“Well, as long as there’s a plan B in place,” is what he finally said when he spoke, surprising her with the gentleness of it.

“Don’t worry, Michael,” Gabriel told her. “A mind is a terrible thing to waste. And yours is priceless. That was decent of you. It was a good call.”

Now, she looks at the space where the tardigrade was. The creature she set free.

Maybe it’s what Lorca needs, too…she thinks.

This must have been what Gabriel felt when he learned of her and Ash.

.

.

She hears the doors open behind her but doesn’t turn. Hears his heavy footsteps, the swish of the uniform, but doesn’t move.

Not even when she feels the heat of him behind her does she glance up. Just stays still.

It’s quiet between them, the only sound is the cooing of Merkin, asleep in her arms, the plump body expanding and contracting with every breath it takes.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

Merkin wakes, and gives a small mewl, wriggling in her hands. She places him on the table in front of her, and he begins to inch his way toward the edge as if anticipating. Waiting.

“Michael? Talk to me? Look at me?”

But she shakes her head and wipes at her face.

Lorca’s brows furrow, lips curl into a frown.

This won’t do. So, he takes a step back and comes around the table to see her, since she won’t look at him.

Only then does he get to see her face. Eyes downcast. Hands in lap. A trace of a tear on a soft cheek.  _Crying?_

New. Something he’s unsure of whether she’s done before. Likely not. Probably not—since she was a child, at least.

“I can’t fix what you won’t tell me I broke,” he tries again. Years of experience has taught him more than a few lessons about women and emotions.

At that, there’s a flicker of something.

“Is Admiral Cornwell…well?”

_Oh._

She’s still not looking at him, but she doesn’t have too. She’s told him all he needs to know.

Lorca scoops Merkin up in an arm.

“Computer,” he says “beam two to room 2-1-1-2.”

_._

_._

They materialize in his quarters, and he sets Merkin down on the desk before coming behind Michael and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her close, and nuzzling her neck.

“It’s called jealousy,” he tells her, mildly amused now that he knows what’s wrong. But for her sake, he won’t smile. And she can’t see the tiny hint of a smirk that’s playing on the right side of his mouth.

She starts to protest.

“I am not…it’s not…,” but she can’t quite formulate the denial. He’s put a name on what she was feeling. It’s…new.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” his lips graze the side of her neck, gently.

He loves Katrina. Always will. But what he hopes to make Michael understand is that there is a difference between loving, and being in love.

The explanation is long. It’s careful too.

“She wanted to know if I loved you,” He says, resting his hands on her body, speaking softly. “I do.”

The tickle of his breath on the back of her neck, makes the tiny hairs stand. He feels so good. So right, so everything.

Love.

Beside them, Merkin lets out a small squeak, interrupting the moment. Michael looks to the creature, now clinging over the edge of the desk, having somehow slipped off. Its haunches wriggle, body stretched out as it tries to pull itself up, making Michael laugh at the sight.

Lorca sees the critter’s struggle and lets her go, and they both reach for Merkin. Hands touch as they pick him up together.  

“Merkin loves you too,” Lorca says, holding the tribble up to her and giving her eyes.

At the expression on his face, she laughs again, the uncertainty falling away, replaced by something once again solid. Michael takes him into her arms, and buries her face in the soft fur, as the animal trembles, having been frightened by its mishap.

“Sh… it’s okay,” she whispers to it, stroking its soft fur and walking toward the bedroom, to settle on the bed. Lorca sits beside her, and they whisper to their pet, calming it. He thinks Michael would be a wonderful mother.

It’s a stray thought and Lorca blinks a bit and dismisses it.

That night, Merkin sleeps between them both, purring contentedly alongside its adoptive parents.


	32. Battle Cries

**Battle Cries**

With Katrina’s tacit acknowledgement, Discovery presses on.

Most of the previously Klingon-occupied Federation territory has now been regained.

Most. But not all.

The two sides are drawing closer to a bitter, bloody stalemate.

Klingon incursions and attacks deeper into their territory have slowed, but not ended. And he can see from the battle maps, that the ones still happening are growing riskier—a sign that one side may be growing more desperate than the other. It can be either fortuitous or dangerous, he knows. A desperate enemy is a deadly enemy.

“Captain Lorca to the bridge.”

Saru’s voice floats over the comm, reaches him down in the bowls of the ship, in Gabriel’s lab. The holographic map floating around him disappears as he logs out of the system.

“Acknowledged. On the way.”

When he arrives, Saru turns.

“Incoming distress message from the U.S.S. Cole,” the first officer says.

“On screen.”

Before them, a blurry, glitching image. The bridge of the Cole—its commanding officers voice fading in and out, as sparks fly.

“Under attack…critical….help.”

The screen goes blank.

“Saru, do you have their location?” Lorca asks.

“Aye, sir.”

“Specialist,” Lorca turns to Michael. She nods and begins to make her way down to engineering.

“Black alert,” he tells the remaining crew.

The siren sounds and crew members begin to break from their present tasks and quickly report to their battle stations.

The air in Discovery has changed. Electrified.

 No one would ever admit it. War is supposed to be couched in tragedy. But these are the moments they all live for.

“Engineering to bridge, set to go,” Burnham’s voice comes through, and Lorca feels the familiar tingle of excitement in his hands.

“Lieutenant Detmer,” he commands, “let’s go get our friends. Lieutenants Owosekun and Rhys,” he calls to them, eyes focused straight ahead, “Proceed to fire at will as soon as we drop in.”

The Lieutenants grin at each other.

“Aye, sir!”

.

.

Discovery emerges in a blaze of fire.

Her captain stands in front of the viewer, quickly taking assessment of the battle scene in front of him. Two Klingon cruisers advancing on a crippled, listing U.S.S. Cole. One of its thrusters has been blown off. Scorch marks on its sides and belly. Gaping holes in various places allowing them to see clear through. A debris field surrounds it. Bodies floating too.

He pushes that off to the side for the moment and raises his arms in front of him, squinting and using his fingers to form two, interlocking circles—marking targets. Trajectory.

He gives the coordinates for the first of several shots.

“Fire!”

The first cruiser explodes. Discovery doesn’t take on prisoners of war.

The second cruiser turns toward them, preparing to charge.

A new position. One eye squinted shut as he moves his arms just slightly, getting a lock.

“Fire.”

Voice hard. Set.

It blows up in front of them, to a cheer.

But Lorca doesn’t.

“Mr. Saru, assessment. Can you reach the Cole?”

The crew go silent, as Saru works on hailing the battered Antares-class vessel.

It’s audio-only. A static hiss.

Lorca feels his stomach clench. _Were they too late?_

“Discovery to Cole, respond,” Saru tires again.

Still nothing.

“Are there any life signs?” The captain asks.

“Scanning now, sir.”

They wait. The silence agonizing.

“D..D…Discovery…you there?”

It comes across faintly over the comm, couched in static, barely audible. But it IS there.

Lorca hits the comm quickly.

“Name and position,” he barks.

“Ensign Liu…bridge…”

All he needs.

“We’ve got life signs,” Saru says. Redundant. All Lorca needs is one.

The doors to the bridge open and Michael walks in.

“Saru, Specialist --” he tells them. “Assemble a rescue team. “Ready sickbay. We’ve got injured.”

Injured, but alive.

.

.

Later, after breaking down the initial battle report, he beams over to the Cole to join Michael.

The ship’s Sick Bay is largely intact but full of wounded. The doctors are working frantically, and Discovery is aiding with overflow on his ship as well. The two vessels are now anchored together, side-by-side, with Discovery’s crews working with what’s left of the able-bodied on the U.S.S. Cole to make patch repairs until other help arrives to help the ship back to safer space.

Lorca’s personal assessment of the situation is grim. The interior damage far outstrips that on the outside of the ship. Collapsed bulkheads in several areas, temporary containment fields in others — the only line between death by suffocation and the artificial life supports sustaining the ship.

The bridge has been completely destroyed and the backup area, deeper in the body of the Cole isn’t in much better shape, but at least it’s functional—sort of. The vessel had a crew complement of 187…now down to 96. And its Captain and first officer are both dead, leaving a young Lieutenant Commander Liu, the voice on the comm, now acting-Captain.

These are the casualties of war, Lorca thinks grimly. So many of these people…just children…barely adults. Still so young…

Sickbay is full of aching and moaning, soft sobs. He hates this—seeing so much pain, but it is his duty to offer comfort when he can. First, here on the Cole and then to those on Discovery, where the more dire situations are being addressed.

It takes 19 hours for the closest Starfleet ships to reach them, providing relief for the exhausted and beleaguered crews of the U.S.S. Cole and U.S.S. Discovery.


	33. Like You'll Never See Me Again

**Like You’ll Never See Me Again**

The longer it goes, the more he becomes convinced there’s only one way for it to end.

“Tell me, again,” he asks, as Michael rolls over beside him, eyes bleary.

“What?”

“Again. Walk me through what you were thinking. The mutiny.”

He keeps asking about this. The questions began a few nights ago, following the Cole Incident, and haven’t let up since.

Michael sits up, bringing the sheet around her chest. He’s looking at her with a certain kind of intensity that…

“Tell me. I need to hear it again.”

She does.

.

.

He’s spending more and more time now down in Gabriel’s lab, studying battle maps. Well, it’s more like Lorca’s lab now.

 Here, he ruminates over what’s known of the Klingon Empire. Q’onos, the home planet. The data is outdated, but the war has helped fill in some of the gaps. And there are the historical records of the Vulcan encounter as well.

The more Lorca studies it, the more certain he becomes--there really is just one way to bring this to a close.

Michael was correct in the beginning. And as he considers and analyzes, Lorca knows exactly what he and he alone must do.

.

.

“You’re out of your fucking mind and I won’t allow it!”

Katrina looks incensed, eyes wide as she stares at him through the viewer.

But he knows she’s not angry. She’s afraid.

“Gabriel…it’s a suicide mission,” she whispers when he pushes past her protests and finishes explaining.

“It’s the only way this stops,” he tells her. “You know that. I know Michael know it, too. We missed our chance at the beginning to prevent this war. We have to shut them down.”

“And you? WHY must it be you?”

“You know why, Trina.”

Because he was presumed dead months ago. And he’s not supposed to be here, anyway.

She sinks into her chair and lowers her head, arms on her knees, quiet for a long moment as she absorbs his plan.

It’s crazy.

Like a fox.

But she also knows he’s right. The Klingons won’t respect any other type of assertion. They have to show force. If they don’t, there may be a short truce until the Klingon forces regroup—and then the war will rage again. To bring about a permanent, lasting peace, the must be decisive. Strike with precision. And it must be deadly.

“Gabriel…”

“Trina, please let me do this.”

He’s asking. Intellectually…she knows she has too. Emotionally though…

“Are you going to tell Michael?”

Lorca looks at her and then down.

“No. In order for this to have a shot at working…”

She nods.

“I understand.”

They move on.

Begin to map it out among themselves. And when they’ve finished, they go quiet.

“I love you ‘Trina.”

A tired, wan smile.

“I love you too, you crotchety bastard.”

He laughs then grows sombre. “I know I shouldn’t ask…”

“Then don’t. I’ll take care of her, Gabriel.”

.

.

Every bit of her is screaming that something is wrong.

 But he keeps saying everything is fine.

“You’re lying to me.”

She sees through it a mile away and he doesn’t try to counter it. Instead, he just slips his arms around her and pulls her body close to his.

“Let’s just stay here, like this, okay?”

They’re in his bed. In his quarters. The hour is late.

Beside them on a nightstand Merkin sleeps, making the usual quiet rumble.

“But we can’t just stay here,” she protests, trying to turn to face him. He squeezes her tighter, to keep her from getting up.

“I’m leaving tomorrow for a meeting,” Lorca tells her, finally, knowing she won’t take his silence.

“How long will you be gone? Where?”

“Where. How long.”

“Starbase 49. Just a few days. I’ll be back. Just taking a shuttle.”

A partial lie. He does have a …meeting. And he will be taking a shuttle.

Michael’s eyes search his face. He meets hers with a quiet gaze of his own. They watch each other silently, until, she speaks. “You’re still lying. You’re a worse liar than _he_ was.”

This makes him chuckle, and he rolls them together until she straddles his lap, the covers falling away, allowing him to take her in. Instinctively, Michael’s arms come up to cover her bare breasts. Lorca  catches her hands and pulls them back down, looking up at her.

“I want to see you.”

“You’ve seen me.”

“Still so shy. I love looking at you.”

He’s focused now, taking in all of her. Every curly strand of hair, the delicately arched eyebrows, the wide-set eyes, her heart-shaped face and delicate chin. Her mouth.

Calloused hands trace each curve, each crest and she stays still as he does, the touch almost plaintive, worshipful. Like she’s fragile and he’s afraid to break her.

In a single, fluid motion, Lorca sits up, hands lower, lifting her and settling her back down. She wraps her arms around his shoulders as he lays his head against her chest.

“You never said it back,” he tells her quietly, lips on the space between her breasts.  “I know you don’t really know what it is. But maybe one day you will. And you’ll be able to love that person too.”

Tears come unbidden to the corners of her eyes, and she blinks rapidly as he begins to blur in front of her face.

“I…don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.” It’s shaky. Uneven, matching the flutter of her heart. He can hear it all. He can feel the quaking of her hands on the back of his neck. In his hair.

“It’s okay, Michael.” The voice is muffled. His breath warm against her chest. “It’ll be okay.”

“I don’t believe you,” she whispers a tear betraying her, escaping right before he lifts her again and sets her down on his erection, thrusting up, and into her. She gasps at the entry, eyes closing, the feel of him inside, expanding her walls, makes her shudder, her hips beginning to move against him, the desire of closeness, of _need_ , taking over. She wants what he willingly gives.

And, she loves it. Loves him. But she can’t say that.

The words just won’t come, even as she rides on his lap, the stretch, the friction, the sensation of his fingers stroking her clit, make her body sing with pleasure.

He whispers to her that this is what making love feels like. It’s the first time Michael thinks she wants to die.

Here.

Now.

With him.

They’ve done this before but it feels different this time.

Something is wrong.

This feels like goodbye.

Like she’ll never see him again.

_Please don’t leave me…._


	34. Remembrances

**Remembrances**

_“You chose to do the right thing over what was sanctioned. Even at great cost to yourself…context is for kings…”  (But what’s a king without a queen?)._

_“That’s the kind of thinking I need next to me.”_

.

.

_Katrina is the only woman Lorca ever loved…_

_Michael is the only woman Gabriel ever loved…_

_._

_._

_“The truth is, you’re not the man I used to know.”_

_“I watched you change these last months, it’s upsetting. And it’s definitely not how it used to be.”_

_._

_._

_“I did want to thank you, sir.”_

_“I’m grateful to serve under a captain like you.”_


	35. See Through Me/A Song For You

**See Through Me (A Song for You)**

The war is over.

Katrina walks the now-familiar path to the observation deck, two lifts and another corridor. A left.

Room 2-1-1-2.

“She’s not come out since he left,” Saru speaks softly.

The admiral nods. “It’s all right.”

“The override has been…changed,” he tells her. “Specialist Burnham has it programmed on an alternating frequency….”

“I understand, Commander. I’ll take care of it from here. Thank you.”

He nods and departs. In front of the door, Katrina straightens her uniform.

She wonders how well she knows Michael Burnham.  She’s about to find out.

Her hand passes over the biometric scanner and Cornwell waits as the doors whir, then open into darkness.

She steps through.

Command overrides changed, indeed. But Michael did allow for one person to find her.

The space remains neat. Did she expect something different? Perhaps, from what she had been told. But no. Nothing is amiss. And yet…it feels different.

They’ve been here before.

In front of her, Michael Burnham stands, facing the window in her dress uniform.

“Admiral.”

“Specialist.”

Katrina comes to stand beside her.

“Will it ever stop?” Michael says, gently stroking the large bundle of fur in her arms.

Katrina knows what she’s asking. And it hurts her to have to tell Michael the truth.

“It hasn’t yet, for me.”

Only then does Michael turn to her, and when she looks at the younger woman, she feels her heart break for her. For them both.

But she swore to Gabriel that she would take care of Michael. And her role now is not of an admiral but of a friend—a mentor, someone who has been there before.

“It will be okay,” she tries, but Michael shakes her head.

“That’s what he said, too.”

Katrina wants to tell her, but can’t. It’s classified. Above top secret. Even now, Starfleet is working on erasing Gabriel Lorca.

“Come,” she says instead. “The memorial service is starting.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You must, Commander.”

_Commander._

It still feels odd to hear the word. She’s gotten accustomed to “Specialist.” The pardon was delivered a week ago. Saru made it official for her with a ceremony before the crew.

It rang hollow at the time.

It still does now. She’d rather still be “Specialist” if it meant Gabriel Lorca was still alive.

“We should have listened to you,” Katrina says softly. “I want to apologize to you personally.”

Because if they had, then Gabriel Lorca would still be here.

If they had, the universe would still be the same.

But because they did not, _the face of all the world is changed_.


	36. Will You Take My Hand?

**Will You Take My Hand?**

The order came down from Admiral Cornwell, reaching Commander Burnham at her post on the U.S.S. Discovery. There’s not really a directive, but a location—she’s being sent to Starbase 69.

“Are you looking forward to vacation, Commander?” the pilot asks, as they cut the thrusters and make their final approach to the starbase. Through the viewport, Burnham sees rotating twin spheres moving in opposite directions, at either end of a wide cylinder, making the station look like a barbell in space. It’s an older one, designed some 100 years ago but still functional and mostly used these days for tourists. There are some fleet personnel but not many, so it is understandable to Michael why her pilot would ask.

“I am,” she says measuredly, “but not today.”

The shuttle coasts into space dock, joining hundreds of others in traffic moving in and out of the cylinder, a city humming with activity. A connecting gangway emerges from one of the many ports and latches onto the craft. There’s a hiss, and the pilot cuts off the engines.

“Pressurization complete”, the computer says. Michael stands and gathers the small case she’s brought with her. Two changes of clothes, and a PADD. The admiral had been mum about the purpose of this visit and so, in caution, Michael had packed a set of civilian clothes and a fresh uniform.

“Thank you,” she nods to the pilot and leaves as soon as the shuttle doors open to the gangway.

Most of Starfleet’s space stations have similar layouts and if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen most. She’s been directed to a room, number 8807, likely somewhere in the upper orb. The station is crowded with beings, loud and noisy—and for a moment, she feels disconcerted by the sudden barrage of sound, having spent most of the year in the quiet routine of service on a starship. Here, there is no routine as beings brush past, back and forth, children holler, merchants attempt to sell their wares …so much…activity. The station is large, but feels claustrophobic—and she realizes after being bumped hard from behind, that she’s standing in the main port.

Michael gets her bearings and begins to move toward the series of lifts she sees going up and down between the spheres.

It’s several minutes before she’s able to get into one with more than two dozen others, and after what feels like an eternity, she finally reaches level 88. By now, she’s the only one left and she steps out and into a corridor that is blessedly empty. And silent.

Doors align either side of the walls and she walks down, looking for the one that ends in -07.

Finally.

The ID numbers are entered quickly, and she’s already thinking that the first thing she wants is a long, hot shower followed by warm tea. Possibly with a little bit of rum in it. Maybe she’s inherited some of Lorca’s habits.

Not a day has gone by that she hasn’t thought of him. His smell. His touch and taste. The way he laughed. The way he yelled. The way he held her, the way they loved together. Made love together.

She misses him.

Even now, she wonders if there was something she could have done to change his mind. If there was another way to end the war that didn’t require his sacrifice. Michael has loved two Gabriel Lorcas and has been forced to watch both die. Sometimes, she feels it’s all her fault. It is irrational. Gabriel made his choice. They both did.

There have been many nights when her dreams felt so real that she’s woken up with dried tears on her face. Or, even worse, her body still humming from an orgasm.

Perhaps she will skip the tea. And go straight to a small (very small) taste of bourbon. It is an acquired taste, one she didn’t acquire until after Gabriel was gone.

 With a sigh, she opens the doors to the room and steps inside, but as soon as she turns on the lights, she gasps, and the bag falls out of her hand.

Michael’s heart begins to race, her hands tremble and she cannot believe that what she’s seeing is real. It can’t be. This must be yet another cruel joke. Some strange machination of the mind. Her heart cannot take anymore…

“Hello, Michael.”

Gabriel turns to face her, from where he’s been standing in front of the window. He’s dressed in a fleet uniform, but it’s black, not blue, the gold trim silver, his insignia silver as well. There’s a new pip. A new rank on it. Commodore.

 He steps toward her, but she steps back, unsure, disbelieving because, how?

“I saw you die,” she whispers. “I saw you…dead.”

He goes to her, seeing the shock and terror on her face, fear as well. Not of him, but of whether he’s real.

“I’m here,” Lorca says gently, taking one of Michael’s hands into his, bringing it to his lips, and kissing it.

She feels the warmth of his touch, the texture of his mouth on her skin, and shudders.

“But…how?”

“Section 31,” he tells her, pulling her close to slip an arm around her waist—allowing her to feel him, to reassure her that he is very, very much alive, very not dead.

Solid. She reaches up to touch him. Her fingers tracing his eyes, his nose, lips, jaw, chin. She runs her hands down his chest, places her head there, to hear his heart—strong, steady. All of him—solid. Physical. She knows he’s a soldier at heart. An office would never suit him. It feels fitting, that he would go to Special Ops—to Section 31, the side of Starfleet that technically doesn’t exist, except in quiet whispers, and myth.

Lorca looks down into her face, into her eyes, and he smiles at her, wistfully. Hopefully.

“I’m sorry, love. We had to end the war.”

“If you had told me…”

But he shakes his head. “No. You’d have wanted to go too. And I love you too much to let you sacrifice yourself for _them_..”

He’s speaking of Starfleet _. “Them”_ is said bitingly, and whatever doubt remains about whether he is who he says he is, goes. Her arms wrap around his waist and she hugs him tightly.

“Please stay,” she says. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me again.”

He squeezes her back, saying nothing at the moment, just holding her like this, feeling her warmth, her softness and her strength.

“Kiss me.”

She does, fingers snaking around his shoulders again, and he deepens it, wanting to be closer to her, closer than clothes will allow.

She knows.

Knows when he turns their bodies and backs her up to the bed, then lays her down on it to begin removing her shoes, her jacket, pants, shirt. Bra. Panties, everything, until her body is bare before him, and his eyes devour her, as he stands to take off his clothes.

She welcomes him into her embrace. They moan together as he enters her body, her legs and hips rise to meet him, arms wrap around his neck and back and pulling him down and in—closer.

Lips touch.

They’re both hungry for it.

Starved for it and each other.

No words are needed. Their bodies know this language.

This is their promise. The commitment to always find each other, no matter where in the galaxy they are.

“I love you,” she says. The words she should have said nine months ago.

.

.

“How did you know I would be here?” She asks afterwards, snuggled into his shoulder, fingers dancing across his abdomen.

He turns his head and lips graze her forehead.

“I sent for you. Kat made it happen for us.”

“You?”

At that, he feels her head lift and opens his eyes. Pretty brown ones look down at him.

“Yes.”

“Where have you been?”

“I’ve been…” Should he tell her? What he’s really been doing? Cleaning up the last of it—chasing the not-so-compliant Klingon ships out of Federation territory, simply destroying the ones that remain? Finishing up the dirty business of war?

“Section 31,” he says, seeing if she knows what that is.

Her eyes go wider. She does know. The daughter of a Federation ambassador would definitely know.

“I…didn’t think that was real.”

“Very real.” He says.

“The war decimated all our ranks. Section 31 was no exception. They needed a new leader. I’m not Captain anymore. Commodore.”

Michael mulls it over. “Rules are for admirals in back offices,” she says.

An eyebrow. “Huh?”

She smiles and kisses him on the lips. “You’ve said that, before.”

“I know I said that to Katrina at one point.”

“You said that to me, too.”

And he knows it’s something the other him must have said at some point.

Lorca smiles a moment too, then takes her hand in his, looking at her. She lays her head back down on his chest.

He weighs whether to ask her to join him. It’s the reason he called her here. Because this past year of separation, of allowing Michael to believe he was dead, and to just watch her from a distance has been worse than his time in the alternate universe. But now, seeing her, feeling her, he knows he can’t do it. Because while Lorca is a jaded man, somehow, Michael is still a believer. It is tempered now, by experience—but she still has her ideals. Her loyalty. He’s loyal too—but it’s not the same thing.

Katrina, bless her, has kept him informed of how Michael was faring. And he knows that at first—it was hard for them both. Hard for the admiral to watch Michael suffer her sadness in silence. And hard for Katrina to allow her stay that way.

_“She feels like I did when I thought you were gone,” Trina told him late one night, over the comm system. They were sharing a drink – at opposite sides of the sector._

_“I can’t blame her. Even now, sometimes…” she’d drifted off and he’d gone quiet, understanding. “So, I got the paperwork from the realtor,” she switched abruptly. “You should have it too. We can --”_

_But he’d stopped her._

_“It’s your house, ‘Trina. What you always wanted and where you wanted it. I want you to have it, and enjoy it. You deserve it. Hell, you earned it for everything you put up with from me.”_

_It got a genuine grin. “You and Michael are welcome to visit, if we ever get to see what retirement looks like.”_

_They’d both laughed, and toasted to that one. In his new position, there was no such thing. And Katrina had been promoted to Vice Admiral. They’d basically been fooling themselves back then into thinking they’d ever give it up._

 

“I wanted to ask you to join me, to come with me,” Lorca tells Michael. “But I know you will say no.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but he silences it with a kiss.

“Let me finish?”

She nods.

“Neither of us are the type to settle down. We both belong out here,” he gestures to the window. “We know that, right?”

“Yes.”

He snuggles her.

“It’s up to you, love. If you call me, I will come. I don’t care how far, no matter the circumstance. But I also don’t want you tied to me, or for you to feel like you’re trapped. This, what I do—it has consequences. It has sacrifices. But you’re not responsible for the choices I make.”

She shifts against him, a smooth leg rubbing against his as she contemplates it.

“I wonder if he ever found her,” she muses.

Lorca knows what she’s asking. About Gabriel. About Gabriel’s lost Michael. About where they are, what became of them. Whether they found each other. Found happiness. Found peace. Whether such a thing is even possible when life, and the after-life, are chaos.

“I don’t know,” he tells her, voice choked by the emotion that wells up inside them both, catching them off-guard. Michael buries her face in Lorca’s chest as he squeezes her tight, unable to bear the thought of having to let her go again, of the very real possibility that she’s not his, not meant for him to have, that he will lose her as Gabriel lost his Michael, of being alone. Dying alone.

All they have is today. For now, that will have to be enough.

 

**-END-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for taking the time to read and leave comments. It is appreciated. I feel like there may be one more fic in me, But I think my Discovery muse is on her way out. I personally love this story, and I hope I was able to bring a little bit of something to the table. 
> 
> LF


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